The inconsolable Bolter's keyboard gently weeps ...

The tragedy unfolds ...

Off the table. No crumbs for the Lomborgians ...

Done in the dead of night. The stealthy work of assassins sitting on their decision, hiding their shame from the light of day ...

The inconsolable Bolter sobs of tears of misery ...

How very, very sad ...

Which no doubt explains why the pond is giddy with amusement ...

But it's dark days for reptile readers. A gnashing of teeth and a wailing and the donning of sackcloth and ashes as a scene roughly akin to Lady Macbeth's lines plays out ...

Turnbull:
The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Lomborg   
Under my funding battlements. 
Come, you reptile spirits 
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full
Of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood;
Staunch the flow of the ministering milk
Of government grants to pork barrelling blow-ins 
Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature 
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it! Come to my manly breasts,
And take my bitter milk for gall, you murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, 
And pall the Bolter in the dunnest smoke of leftist hell,
That my keen slashing spending knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
 To cry 'Hold, hold!'

Or some such thing. Admittedly the readers were a tad more prosaic ...

Oh the dunnest dark of cardigan-wearing leftist hell, that such a fine boondoggle should be stifled, truncated, still-born.

Who is the knave, the rat lurking behind the arras, the deceptive varlet responsible for such a currish deeed?

Oh and happy back to the future day from the science minister ...