The eleventh sign of hope ...

The Bolter proposes to pack up the tents, shut up, steal away into the night, until the new year.

Is there a better reason imaginable for Xmas and the holiday season?

Fat bloody chance.

You can't shut up the man. He's an inhuman robotic machine, and he keeps on churning:

And so on and so forth.

Uh huh.

How lucky we are that even over Xmas the Bolter is always on call.

Pond to Bolter, pond to Bolter.

Pond to Bolter, something's not right on the intertubes:

That report here, and that report by the NOAA, here.

The pond is utterly bereft. The preliminary data in, and the world's leading climate scientist packed his bags and gone on holiday.

What to do, what to make of it, without the firm guiding hand of the world's most expert climate scientist?

We need a sign, somewhere a sign, anywhere a sign, a helpful, calming sign that global warmism is dead.

Quick, someone a wooden stake, some holy water, a crucifix, plenty of garlic, don't forget the silver bullets, and please, please, someone get the Bolter on the line, so he can scribble The death of global warmism: November the hottest month on record, the eleventh sign of hope!

Sadly with the cat away the mice will play. Here's a game to play, and more First Dog here: