Damian sat serenely in the front of the car, his left arm draped casually over the back of the passenger’s seat, whilst his right hand deftly adjusted the steering wheel in small but authoritative tugs. I pushed from the rear, sweat dripping down my forehead as a middle-age paunch quivered and danced above a straining trouser belt. Damian, clearly exasperated by his mount’s pedestrian progress, felt the need for speed.
“Put your bloody back into it! Anyone would think I still had the handbrake on. Oh, wait…”
Boosted by a sudden and unexplained easing of the load, it wasn’t long before I’d propelled Damian’s fossil-fuelled fossil to a thoroughly thoroughfare-friendly parking spot. Damian and I then stood forlornly by the car’s side, awaiting Mandy’s ever-dependable efficiency to bear fruit. Any moment now, the hire car was bound to arrive and we would be well on our way. In the meantime, it had started to rain (or, as the Guardian was now insisting, the climate tears were falling).
Damian glanced upwards but seemed unfazed. He simply stood by the kerbside, legs impressively widened, whilst he held his mobile phone to his ear in a pose designed to project an aura of calm, professional intent. I, on the other hand, having been given the important job of nursing an imposing pile of generator brochures, was his pathetic silhouette, climate tears dripping off my nose as the brochures slowly turned to papier-mâché. At long last, a car appeared at the forecourt entrance, driven in what looked suspiciously like a search pattern.
“Ah!” exclaimed the redoubtable Damian. “That’ll be for us. Come on Tim; do try to keep up!”
“Oh right then. So you do know my name at least,” I silently observed.
Damian looked at me askance.
“You’re not silently observing something, are you?”
By this stage in the proceedings sarcasm was fast becoming me.
“What, me? No, I’m just overwhelmed by the responsibility I have for this precious pile of brochures. It would be a shame if the tireless efforts of the United Nations, the BBC and the Guardian were to go to waste for the want of a well-kept collection of glossy pictures, graphically depicting the massed spectacle of drowning polar bears desperately trying to escape the disintegration of their snowy paradise.”
Damian narrowed his eyes to register his suspicions before quickly losing interest. Purposefully, he turned towards the approaching vehicle and waved at it desperately, whilst desperately trying not to appear desperate. In good time, his nonchalantly frantic arm-waving attracted the driver’s attention, and the car drew gently to a halt by Damian’s side. The driver’s window wound down half an inch and out spewed a pall of cigarette smoke that promptly billowed skywards.
“So what bloody took you?” opened Damian with all of the mannered machismo that a self-regarding generator salesman could be expected to muster. But his reproach encouraged nothing more than a smoky, billowing silence. Undeterred, Damian leant forward and tapped upon the barely open window.
“I said, where the hell have you been? Didn’t they tell you I have climate deadlines to meet?” Apparently not, if the continued, hazy blue silence were to be taken seriously.
By now, Damian’s patience was beginning to wear thin. After all, he didn’t get to be one of Luton’s leading wind-powered generator sales executives by standing in climate tears, conversing with the carcinogenic effluence of an otherwise reticent hire car assistant – but, to be fair, very few people have done. Fortunately for all concerned, the driver finally broke his silence. “You must be Damian then,” he said in a hoarse monotone.
“Yes,” confirmed Damian, “but wasn’t that obvious?”
“I suppose it was,” agreed the driver with wistful indifference, “seeing as you were the only fart wafting his arms about like an epileptic wind turbine.”
Damian had never seen himself as a fart before, let alone an epileptic wind turbine, and so he didn’t immediately recognise the driver’s description of him. “Who the fu…?” he managed, before being cut short by a car door hitting his nose with a satisfying smack.
“Ooh, I’m sorry,” the driver said, his voice dripping with insincerity, “Were you about to say something?”
Without waiting for his answer, Damian’s assailant swiftly stepped from the car, causing confused smoke eddies to scurry for cover as if in fear of what might happen next. Placing his sunglasses upon his forehead, he spat out his cigarette and looked me up and down as though he could never have guessed. Pre-empting his next sentence, I proffered my own.
“Look, let’s not fall out over a broken nose. If the scientists are right, we are all running out of time, so just toss us the keys and we will be on our way. We’ll fill out the customer satisfaction questionnaire when we get to our destination.”
With sunglasses now reinstated for heightened menace, smoky bloke stepped into my personal space. “So you must be the comedian then,” he growled, before thrusting a set of car keys into my hand. “Just don’t crash the damn thing, laughing boy.”
The traffic on the M3 was unusually heavy, but strangely muted. The days of fossil-fuelled transport were coming to an end, and so there was no throaty roar of a thousand climate-throttling beasts of combustion. Instead, all one could hear was the banshee wail of electrification; a plaintive, whining symphony of tinnitus. Presently, my thoughts turned towards our recent encounter.
“Did you notice anything odd about that hire car assistant? A bit brusque perhaps? For example, no effort to wish us a carbon-neutral day!”
“Yes,” whistled Damian as he readjusted his cartilage, “just a tad brusque, and I don’t mean that in a good way.”
“Mmm,” I continued, “and I’m sure that smoking is disallowed in hire cars. And no paperwork required either! You would have at least expected him to want to see our private transport licences.”
Damian offered no further opinions on the subject – his nose was clicking and I think he was just a bit pissed off.
Further down the M3, and only two re-charges later, silent bemusement once again gave way to open speculation.
“You don’t suppose he wasn’t the hire car assistant after all, do you? When all is said and done, he did seem a little lacking on the customer care front.”
Damian looked unimpressed.
“So what are you trying to suggest? That we have accidentally picked up the wrong car? That we’ve somehow got ourselves embroiled in some criminal skulduggery? A drugs deal gone wrong perhaps, where we end up being chased by police and gangsters alike and, in the meantime, comic capers and farcical merriment abounds?”
“Good grief no!” I insisted, “That would be far too clichéd. I was thinking baked beans rather than drugs. Either way, something doesn’t feel right. That gun in the glove compartment, for example. Firearms don’t normally feature in hire car agreements.”
Damian rocked his head gently from side to side as he weighed up my hypothesis.
“Admittedly so, but I think you are in danger of missing the real point here. This meeting with Jack Groper couldn’t be more critical. Impress him today, and we could be looking at clinching a ten grand deal with perhaps more to follow. We are already running late. That compelling pile of brochures has turned into an unconvincing pile of pulp. You’re an idiot and I’m undervalued. What more of a predicament do you think I need to be in?”
I’ll give you this about Damian, he could remain remarkably focused when it came to matters of self-interest. I knew the Groper contract meant a lot to him but it still never ceased to amaze me how he could dismiss peripheral detail, no matter how arresting it might be to others. So what if we had a gun in our glovebox? We had transport and that meant we could still make the meeting with Jack Groper. Damian could smell promotion – the alluring, overpowering, mind-bending stench of promotion. Nothing else mattered, least of all the fact that our wind-powered generators might just save the planet from a freaky future full of schoolgirl smart-arses shrieking ‘how dare you!’ every time a generator is powered up. I thought it high time that Damian’s self-serving attitudes were challenged.
“You do know, Damian, that we don’t do this for the money, don’t you? You are aware just what is at stake here? This is the very future of our planet we are talking about, not just your career. If we don’t sell more of our wind-powered generators, we are headed for hothouse Earth. We are hurtling towards the tipping point of no return, and now with a goddamned gun in our glovebox!”
“Yeh, that’s right,” sneered Damian. “The money has nothing to do with it. The government grants are irrelevant. There’s just no profit to be had in green energy. We just do it for the love of it – You wanker!”
I could see I was getting nowhere, so I decided to feign agreement.
“Okay, you make a fair point, but have you called Jack then? To let him know we’re running late?”
“Of course!” retorted Damian, “I phoned him half an hour ago, back at the Jolly Eater.”
I chastised myself for having asked such a stupid question. That stance he had struck, drenched in climate tears, yet still projecting an aura of calm, professional intent, was obviously aimed at Jack, even though he wouldn’t be able to see it over the telephone. Damian was something of a method actor, fully capable of immersing himself in his own fantasy world. He evidently believed that you have to convince yourself before you can convince others. Which is what made his climate change cynicism so puzzling. His job depended upon convincing everyone else that carbon-free was the way to go, and yet he didn’t seem to think that this should apply to himself. Surely this was hypocrisy. Had he not learnt anything from the seemingly endless series of international climate summits? For years, people have been jetting from all over the world to make that very point.
Anyway, with priorities now firmly established, we swooped off the motorway and negotiated several sets of lights and roundabouts before our souped-up milk-float wheezed asthmatically into the car park of Jack Groper Limited – Guildford’s leading supplier of high quality bedsprings.
What are frozen varieties of climate tears called?
‘The Groper Contract.,’ in which an unexpected gun turns up in the glove compartment of a hire car…
Could this be the novel of a new literary genre – the climate-change thriller?
Could Damien, street-smart operator, desperately trying not to appear desperate in the relentless confrontations he finds himself drawn into, and his partner, the un-named narrator of the novel, part cynical observer, part justice warrior, in the tradition of the Michael Connelly crime series , could this be the new investigative team caught up in the perilous and dark world of climate – armageddon?
I’m glad you asked. In a bid to engage the pre-school citizens in their catastrophe narrative, the BBC weather reporters had taken to using the term ‘flood lollypops’. However, this never really caught on with the Guardian as they had chosen instead to use their new moderation policy to disallow any denialist claims that such precipitation remained a possibility.
“Could this be the novel of a new literary genre…”
If only! I think it might be better just to think of it as a Christmas cracker joke that has got out of hand.
John, lotsa’ nice jokes in there. )
John, are you aware that climate marbles (fka hail) are less likely the colder it gets? Thus with climate furnacing our cereal crops will require genetic reinforcement just to stay upright. No more wicked romping through wheatfields for our climate luvies, they will need Chieftain battletanks.
Recently, I have had difficulty posting comments on CliScep since they are being treated as spam. Consequently, I am posting this comment with no great confidence that it will appear – at least not until after one of the site administrators has kindly retrieved it from the spam folder. I have absolutely no idea why this is happening now, but it will obviously remain a big problem for me until it is resolved. So what I have to say next may be the last you hear from me for some time.
Firstly, thank you Beth for your feedback. It is much appreciated.
Secondly, Alan, in my fantasy the Chieftain tank is long-retired. In fact, the British army has become so woke that the armoured brigades are riding around on eco-friendly bicycles shouting ‘how dare you!’ to ward of Putin’s hordes.
Festive Frosts to all at Cliscep.
Merry Christmas to the CliScep community. May this be a happy and memorable Holiday.
…and I can’t wait for the next installment of this story.
Does anyone know “Solar” by Ian McEwan? The main character is a bit of a Damian. He’s quite doubtful about climate change but makes money promoting wind and solar schemes.
On behalf of John Ridgway:
“For technical reasons, John is currently unable to comment on Climate Sceptic. Until the matter is resolved, he wishes everyone a Merry Christmas.”
Merry Christmas all
Merry Christmas! Enjoying the story so far – loved “climate tears”.
Paul, I remember reading Solar by Ian McEwan, and actually rather enjoying the misadventures of his flawed protagonist Michael Beard. There are some wryly amusing passages, especially during the Arctic voyage that is (very loosely) based on McEwan’s own 2005 trip in the Noorderlicht:
“After dinner, there was, of course, only one topic. Mostly, Beard listened. Never before had he encountered idealists in such concentration and he was by turns intrigued, embarrassed, constrained. When Pickett asked him on the third night to talk about his work, he stood up to speak. He described the Centre and the quadruple-helix rooftop wind turbine, plausibly claiming it as his own initiative. It was a revolutionary design, he told the room, and he made a sketch to be passed around. It would cut household bills by eighty-five per cent, a saving that would be the equivalent of building – not quite drunk, he summoned a number – twenty-three medium-sized power stations. There were respectful questions, and he answered them judiciously, lucidly. He was among scientific illiterates and could have said anything.”
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John, If your tale is set so far in the future that the armoured might of south-eastern England is reduced to massed ranks of bicycles (and France is consequently a superpower) the continued existence of “Putin’s hordes” must mean that the Russian leader dictates from the grave (or mausoleum) or his monkey gonad treatments are extraordinarily effective.
I’m beginning to believe that you are making it up as you go along.
That work by Ian is very insightful. It offers hints of cynicism even in the most extreme promoters of climate catastrophism.
Interesting, a comment sent from my new I-pad went into moderation and has since completely disappeared. This is being sent from my old, enfeabled Kindle. John, have you perchance changed your device?
Alan, your earlier comment was in moderation. You have a different icon on your profile. I think WP thinks messages from your iPad are a new user. You can probably post using the iPad now. John’s comments went into the Spam folder for some strange reason.
Thank you Jamie for the explanation. Sounds like Akismet has turned rogue and now treats all John’s material as halal.
Thank you Jamie for the explanation. Sounds like Akismet has turned rogue and now treats all of John’s material as haram. Always getting into trouble mixing up my haram with my halal.
It’s not just Akismet that seems to have it in for me. WordPress won’t let me use the like button anymore. Furthermore, anti-spam software is supposed to learn and update its algorithm as spam is manually retrieved from the spam folder, so that it doesn’t repeat the false positive. This doesn’t appear to be happening in my case. Each new comment seems to be treated as spam even after I have been validated manually. It’s a mystery.