THE GREEN RANT

28 Feb

It was… what was it, miserable? No that’s the word that Englishmen use, the old ones that had their imaginations surgically removed at school. Desolate? Bleak? Too strong; it wasn’t that bad…

Discontented.

It was a discontented Monday that grew greyer and more greasy: the day went on. On and.. on! It ground the hours and minutes out like broken factory machinery at some farm tools plant converted to artillery production. It was a day that seemed like sometime in the early ’40s when it looked like Hitler would win the war. It was a Monday that brought back that era. The era of greys and brown. Blue for the upper crust. Maybe an eldery amulet in honour of a wartime ancestor’s courage in an archaic battle. Antique jewelery perhaps. The type of Monday the resolutely Anglo-Saxon part of Melbourne actually prefers. That first Monday when the end of Summer is officially announced and the Wog City that was, that Mediterranean pleasure dome, reverts back to the grid-locked form of perfect civilization that once made this place an icon of joyless desolation. Somewhere so boring it was funny.

Autumn arrived early this year. Grrrrr!

Don’t get me wrong, I love Autumn in Melbourne. Soon the weather will improve and the sky will be a markedly paler shade of blue. There will be very well-dressed people attending the festivals. And the European trees transplanted here and maintained with an unsustainable quantity of scarce water will do their cultural duty and fade to oranges, yellows and browns providing a little corner of England. Or the Netherlands. Scotland, Ireland, Wales. Germany. Russia. The Azkanatzum.

Italy, Greece, Spain, Croatia, Serbia – they don’t count. Too close to the middle of the world, y’see. France? Borderline, they’ve been getting the Italian breezes far too long. But Germany’s okay, they drink beer. 🙂

East Asia, the sub-continetal sphere, the Africans, Latin Americans; do they care if elms and oaks line the parks in this city? I’ve never asked. But I get the feeling it’s fundamentally an English thing. A harking back to an old country we obviously no longer resemble.

But I love Autumn in Melbourne. Scots/Irish: close enough. Still I’m pissed – another short fizzer of a summer. I’ve learned to appreciate hot weather whilst living down here. Scarcity, y’see. Up in Brizvegas, Sydney even, it’s too hot and sticky far too long. I liked Melbourne summers because they were hot and dry. And short. They were hot and dry. Now, they’re wet and sticky too, and even shorter.

Still I’m in the spirit of things. Gettin’ serious, reverting to form. Concerned again with things like ‘professionalism’. So I go back to the papers and Andrew Bolt’s blasting Tim Flannery and for good reason. Flannery predicted a few years back that the drought would never end, that the reservoirs would run out. Hah!

You can’t predict the weather much further than a few days and even then you’re wrong. (And right now they’re sooo wrong and always in a bad way.) You can only mark the climatic trends. It’s the same old fandango. Flannery doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Neither does Bolt.

The fundamental global warming forecast is for steeper climatic waves. We are to see a tendency for the regular occurrence of what’s normally considered extreme weather. The weather will, as always, fluctuate. There have always been summers that are wet. But if every summer is wet and sticky or dry as an Arizona bone (and on fire everywhere) well, ladies and gentlemen, the climate has changed.

When that penny drops, and it will take a few years at least, then Bolt, Flannery and everyone else who craps on in ignorance and with power viz AGW should get on a boat and go live on a submerging island in the South Pacific. The people living there should get their houses (I suggest a lottery for allocation purposes). Whoever scores Al Gore’s place wins.

Algore

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