Having done the 'it's just not bloody fair' riff, it's time for the pond to move on to 'it's just not bloody right'.
You can see the problem right there at the top of the page. No, not the intrusion into the private lives of people who have nothing better to do than appear in front of and behind the cameras, it's that story on the left.
The Fairfaxian warmists and alarmists are in full flight, as you can read in Records melt in our hottest year.
It's a crisis, and the canny, cunning Fairfaxians know how to exploit it to the full.
You see, now that Alan Kohler has packed up his graphs for the year, and departed from ABC News, Australia is in a graphs crisis, a graphs shortage unknown since the beginning of graphs and crosswords. (What's a 9-Letter Word for a 100-Year-Old Puzzle?)
So what do the fiendish alarmist warmists do? Why they roll out an interactive graph, which simply can't be replicated here:
Lordy, lordy, they've out-Kohlered Kohler ...
And then there was all sorts of accompanying jibber jabber:
2013 will go down as the year that registered Australia's hottest day, month, season, 12-month period - and, by December 31, the hottest calendar year.
Weather geeks have watched records tumble. These tallies include obscure ones, such as the latest autumn day above 45C (Western Australia's Onslow Airport at 45.6C on March 21), the hottest winter's day nationally (29.92C , August 31), and even Wednesday this week, with the hottest-ever 9am reading (44.6C, at Eyre weather station near the WA-South Australian border).
''We're smashing the records,'' says Professor Andy Pitman, director of the ARC Centre of Excellence for Climate System Science at the University of NSW.
''We're not tinkering away at them - they're being absolutely blitzed.''
Global interest in Australia's extraordinary year of heat flared early on. In January, when models started predicting heat that was literally off the charts, the Bureau of Meteorology added new colours to the heat maps - deep purple and pink - to accommodate maximum temperatures of 50-54 degrees. Moomba fell a shade short, reaching 49.6C on January 12.
And so on and so forth, with January ridiculous and September pretty crook, and Sydney in the frying pan, and global temperatures on the march, what with November being the hottest on record since records began in the 1880s, and then wouldn't you know, all the usual alarmist chit chat came out at the end of the piece:
''If you actually look at the amount of heat that the earth's absorbing, it's tracking up almost monotonically,'' Jones says.
Pitman says 2013's likely global ranking of fourth-hottest year ever is exceptional not least because the most significant driver of climate variation - the El Nino-Southern Oscillation in the Pacific - remains in neutral mode. He likens this to the surprise when an athlete at sea-level breaks a record that had been set at high altitude. '
'We shouldn't be breaking records in any years other than an intense El Nino,'' he says. ''Quite why the globe is as warm as it appears to be is worrisome.''
By extension, the next El Nino - in which the central and eastern Pacific Ocean usually warms up and eastern Australia gets drier conditions - has the potential to exceed this year's record-breaking Australian heat. ''If we get that additional anomaly, it might even be enough to trigger an awakening in the eyes of some of our leaders,'' Pitman says.
The pond knew at once that this was a job for the world's greatest climate scientist and immediately put in a call.
And here's where it's just not bloody right.
While the alarmist warmists have their fun, where's the bloody Bolter?
He's in Tasmania.
He's fled south to escape the heat!
And worst of all, he's sounding like a right git, like an effete, 'kerchief waving, snuff-sniffing regency ponce:
As you can read here.
- if I had to hide myself somewhere beautiful to write a book or flee the madness of contemporary culture I would probably choose the Tasman Peninsula. I just wish I knew more about boat engines. But that would bore me.
Rose fucking water meringue?
And he's bored by boat engines?
Why that sounds dangerously un-Australian, and certainly a clue that he might be a member of the worst elite of all, the inner city elite (note to Gerard Hendeson, have you considered the thought that the Bolter might be an alien elitist, a Grange-sipping opera loving cuckoo in the nest, maintaining the rage so he can maintain the lifestyle?)
Of course the Bolter is so tone-deaf, so clunky in the head, he can't get the irony of simpering about a pistachio and rose water meringue, and sniffing at boat engines, and being evah so bored, and so perhaps sounding evah so boring, and then trying on this as a bit of dog whistling:
- a lot of people are out of work on this island. Most of the place has been turned into a national park. That is great for artists wanting to hobble around the bush naked, with just a few feathers glued to their hide. It is less good for people wanting to cut down some trees to make furniture, houses and paper.
Yes, it's also great for wanker members of the commentariat roaming around seeking refuge from the madness of contemporary culture - like reading the Bolter in the HUN - but let's thank the long absent lord the Bolter isn't the one doing the boat engine maintenance for the people wanting to ship old growth forests to Japan so they can use the paper on ever more elaborate and bizarre wrappings for their shopping and their presents ...
And then there's the question of extinction:
- there is a nice display on the Tasmanian tiger. I am sad it’s extinct but am less sure why it really matters. If Tasmanians worried less about such things, would the state have done a lot better? It has the oldest surviving Catholic church in Australia and the oldest stone bridge. Its colony was something when Melbourne was nothing. Now it is our poorest state. Memo to Greens: you can’t eat scenery.
No, you can't eat scenery, unless it happens to contain berries and fruits, and yams and the rest of it, unless you happen to be a Bolter determined to die like Burke and Wills, but it seems you can persuade a mug ponce of the Regency kind to drop their snuff box and stick their snout in a pistachio and rose water meringue.
Why it reminded the pond of that great send-up of Look Back in Hunger by Tony Hancock and his writers:
Mother: Would you like a meringue, Jimmy?
Jim: Meringue? Meringue?! Is that your answer to it all? All the warmists and the alarmists? Meringue? The panacea of the middle class! The answer to all the problems facing mankind today? Have a meringue, Jim! You both make me sick. You're dead, both of you. You're both mentally dead. Your souls are drowned in meringue. Your minds are clogged up with Xmas pavlovas. You're like two slop bowls swimming around in a sea of sugar! Just like this country, the whole rotten system, stained in a meringue of apathy!
Father: What's he mean, Mum?
Mother: I don't think he wants a meringue. Would you like a lamington, then?
Jim: Lamington? Lamington?! Is that your only alternative to the stagnant mess of climate science that's slowly choking you, a lamington?
Mother: No. We've got some scones, I think.
Oh okay, the original skit was about tea and coffee drinkers, but you get the drift, and happily you can right at the moment listen to the East Cheam repertory company doing it on YouTube here.
But look, let's forgive and forget the petty snobbery of a jumped up tabloid tart, the world needs the greatest climate scientist back in action.
It's too much work for the pond alone. We need graphs, we need pure distilled essence of meringue science, we need extinctions, not that we give a stuff about the Tasmanian tiger, and we need yet another snide aside to remind ourselves of the way the Bolter routinely lathers himself up about matters of race, and indigenous people and whites:
- the art work in the Tasmanian art gallery that best sums up a gorgeous state led astray by its elite is an illuminated photograph of an artist who, having shaken the hand of a token Aboriginal then hangs himself apparently for being white.
Yep, that'd be the very same elite that snacks on bloody pistachio and rose water meringue! As if a plain old bloody meringue wasn't good enough for them ...
Above all we need a convict-led recovery.
Never mind the tasty meringues, Tasmania was a go-ahead place when the Port Arthur penal settlement was all the go.
Back then, Tasmania could have amounted to something, they could have been contenders. Why they could have invited the Corrections Corporation of America down under and turned the whole state into a mega prison, a giant Port Arthur, just like they did to New York in Escape from New York.
Instead it's full of artists and ponce meringues and wretched wanker tourists like the Bolter.
Never mind, 'tis the season to be jolly, and it's up to other denialists to maintain the rage: