I dined with Dr. Roy Spencer as the Atlantic rollers swished and crashed against the long, sandy beach here in Cancun. We ate coconut-crusted camarones. Appropriately, shrimps in the Spanish-speaking world are named after the British Prime Minister, the truest of true believers in the New-Age religion that is the Church of “Global Warming”.
Cameron, or “Dave”, as he matily likes to be known, had been careful not to reveal his blind faith in the febrile fatuities of the forecasters of fashionable fatalism to his followers in Not The Conservative Party before they picked him as their leader: but, in his very first speech as Supreme Shrimp, he made it plain to the fawning news media that Saving The Planet would be his very firstest priority, yes indeedy.
One had rather hoped to accompany the crusted Daves with a bottle of Château Cameron, a Sauternes that would have set them off nicely. My noble friend and genial Highland next-door neighbour Lord Pearson of Rannoch, until recently the popular leader of the United Kingdom Independence Party that is springing Britain free from the same grasping tentacles of unelected, supranational bureaucracy in which the UN’s climate panel would like to engulf the planet, always serves this palatable little pudding wine at dinner, and murmurs as he pours is, “A taste of Château Pointless?”
Château Pointless, however, is not on the wine-list in the grim, crumbling concrete bunkers of more than usually repellent aspect that ruin the splendid Cancun beach for miles and miles and are amusingly called “hotels”. The Stalinist gruesomeness of the architecture recalls a joke going the rounds among the British ex-pats sipping their masticha on the 20-mile strip of ugly ribbon development that is the Limassol shoreline:
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