Miranda Devine, Christopher Pearson, and on with the squawking and the fighting as loony season goes 12/365/7/24

(Above: the battle to stop the world turning into a desert. Oh, wait, doesn't that look like a desert in the battle of El Alamein?)

Remember when the commentariat columnists were slavering at the mouth, in a foaming rage, demanding to be told the truth about the SIEV 36 matter?

Was it only in April 2009 that our very own Piers Akerman was proclaiming Truth overboard as Rudd's policy sinks:

The usual rump of Labor enthusiasts are demanding we “remember the Tampa” in the wake of last week’s lethal exercise aboard a boatload of asylum seekers...

...Now we have had at least five deaths due to unlawful activity within Australian waters. Where is the cry from these bleeding hearts for murder charges to be pressed, where is the call for a memorial to these dead?

There was much talk of unseemly delay, of the incompetence of the NT police, of murky waters beneath a wall of silence, of murder most foul.

Now that the inquest has actually, slowly, belatedly cranked into motion, Miranda the Devine is naturally aghast: Scapegoat insanity for our navy.

What's even more remarkable is that she's aghast at the process, since no one yet knows the outcome, the findings, the conclusions, the recommendations ...

The inquest proceedings have been an insult to our armed forces at a time when they are expected to risk their lives in dangerous wars overseas. They are particularly galling in a week when we have honoured our finest fighters with awards for gallantry in Afghanistan and when Trooper Mark Donaldson was announced as Young Australian of the Year, after winning a VC for doing exactly what he was meant to do - rescue an Afghan interpreter who was working for the Australian armed forces - that is, rescuing one of his own.

What an abject goose.

It is of course in the nature of an inquest to follow all kinds of lines of inquiry, and to seek the truth by testing all kinds of theories. Evidence is led, arguments are mounted, shit is flung about, and so it goes.

If the conclusions are demonstrably wrong, or problematic in relation to the actions of the armed forces, then let the Devine burst into one of her standard tirades.

But just as the commentariat columnists were wrong to use the matter to harry the government, and demand murder charges be laid without ever knowing the facts of the matter, now to set about the proceedings of a standard inquest because Miranda the Devine doesn't like the tone of Stephen Walsh QC, counsel assisting the Northern Territory Coroner Greg Cavanagh suggests it's just another day of full throated squawking in loon pond ... on our way to a variation on the Lindy Chamberlain coronial inquiry ...

Well unlike the Devine, we'll keep our powder dry and await the process winding its way to a conclusion without benefit of special pleading any which way.

But that leaves the weekend loon pond ominously quiet.

Quiet? What deluded planet do you live on?

No such luck, I'm afraid. Why if you want trouble and the tedium of going over the whole climate change business again, you can head off to that expert, highly credentialed scientist Chrisrtopher (sic) Pearson and read his stupendously unbiased Don't trust the weatherman's forecasts:

I know, I know, in an amateur site littered with typos, who am I to throw the first stone. But I just love typos, I really do, and they get paid not to stuff up. Now back to Chrisrtopher:

Have the pre-Copenhagen delusions of being manifest destiny incarnate been wholly dispelled? Or, like Paul Keating's conviction that on a trampoline you can expel cancers at the top of each bounce, does a little of the madness linger?

Who knows, but the capacity of commentariat columnists to talk about the science in the tones of a millenarian fundamentalist Latin mass loving Catholic with messianic visions of hell for unbelievers certainly shows no signs of abating.

I guess some people pray to the god of the trampoline, and some to the long dead Mary Mackillop in the hope of a miraculous cure for cancer. Which is the more whacky or zany, only the absent god might explain. But as she's been AWOL for so long, who knows.

Naturally Pearson sees the main benefit in his trawl through the current state of play - which strangely omits Lord Monckton, that's right, not a single bloody mention of Monckton and which only purports a passing acquaintance with the science - is actually all about the way the current debate will do wonders for Tony "the virgin" Abbott, as he battles a flummoxed government.

Sadly Pearson is off the main game. For that we need to turn to John Mikkelsen in The Punch, which - envious of loon pond's first class reputation for loonacy - is now clearly wanting to take over our turf.

How else to explain Mikkelsen's It's El Alamain revisited as climate war heats up?

Our American friends remember The Alamo, we see Gallipoli and North Africa among defining moments in national pride and self-sacrifice against seemingly insurmountable odds.

These initial bloody defeats led state and nations on to ultimate victory against powerful foes.

It’s drawing a long bow to compare any of those to the political battle now being fought on global warming, but one prominent climate realist has done that, and it’s sure to grab some attention.

It's a long bow? Sure to grab attention? Well on The Punch and on loon pond, mebbe.

Of course it's downright bloody stupid, though I suppose it might make a pleasant change from Christopher Pearson's theological posturings.

And of course once having advised that something is a long bow, the first duty of a commentariat columnist is to fire that long bow into the air, in the hope of bringing down the evil Sheriff of Nottingham.

Mikkelsen pretends he's just an interested observer of the way out ways of the climate warriors, such as Viv Forbes:

Forbes relentlessly churns out newsletters packed with controversial prose, such as his latest effort:

“Like the British Eighth Army in North Africa in the 1940’s, climate realists have been in continual retreat since the Climate War started.
“Led by Al Gore’s trained regiments using Nobel Prize gunpowder, backed by academic and government snipers using manipulated temperature data, financed by endless conveys carrying tax payer funds, reinforced by a steady barrage of scare forecasts from the media, and legislative carpet bombing from pliant politicians, the Green Army looked invincible.
“But suddenly the tide turned..."

But as he cheerfully and whole heartedly details the valiant efforts of Forbes and his troops to drive the greenies back across the desert (did anybody stop to think of the Libyan desert the metaphor might evoke?) he also cheerfully adopts their nomenclature "climate realists".

Well if climate realism is reliving the desert battles of World War 11 (might I recommend an excellent book by Keith Douglas, a poet killed in battle, From Alamein to Zem Zem, still in print, if you want an insight into the tank battles of the time), then maybe it's time to head back to thinking that it's actually a satanic battle with greenies swept up in an end time rapture.

Oops, sorry, it's the Christians who are into end time rapture, but you catch my drift. Sssh, whatever you do, don't talk about the science.

And thank the lord at least Mikkelsen mentions Lord Monckton. On his grand tour of the antipodes.

Why hide a cheerfully mad uncle in the closet when he can be wheeled out to talk about the United Nations' global conspiracy, or perhaps do a comedy routine on DDT, as unveiled in Climate change, and DDT: Monckton's inconvenient and inaccurate history.

You see, you thought it was a quiet day, but scratch the papers or the full to overflowing intertubes, and the loons will be jumping out, squawking loudly, scratching and clawing the air, right in your face.

And there's Rick Fenely, who's got the cheek, in Fear not, just keep taking the iTablets, to say:

Who needs the silly season?

Take heart, Australia. It's over. It's time for some gravitas. By informal tradition in this country, the looney cycle runs from the first Tuesday in November, Melbourne Cup day, until January 26, Australia Day.

What a loon. Sure he's trying to be funny, but the loony season (we reject the spelling 'looney' as an abject errant variation paying homage to Looney Tunes) runs 12/365/7/24. And if you don't believe us, by golly, we'll fight you everywhere we can:

We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old. (here).

Just remember this site's golden motto: some loon, some neck!

(Below: wondering how a trampoline might solve your cancer problem, instead of turning to a say Philippines faith healer? Say no more, loon pond at your service here and here. Best position? We recommend the free fall through featherless flight stance, as shown here:

Caution: loon pond accepts no responsibility or liability for necks broken during attempts to resolve a cancer situation.

Still not satisfied? How about a prayer to a graven image?

Caution: loon pond accepts no responsibility or liability for a god that delivers only two papally certified guaranteed miracles over a hundred year time span involving Mary Mackillop, while at the same time delivering cancer to millions. That's how it goes. Send any correspondence or concerns to Chrisrtpopher Pearson, care of The Australian).