When Richard Tice stood at a podium on Monday and told the British public to stop worrying about the climate crisis and simply enjoy the heatwaves, I was supposed to be outraged. My inbox immediately filled with hyperventilating emails from fellow green campaigners, UN delegates, and the sorts of people who put their home insulation R-values in their email signatures. The Reform UK deputy leader had dismissed our life's work as "arrogant" and urged the nation to focus on the upsides of a boiling planet, such as better English wine. The backlash from medical experts was swift, furious, and entirely predictable.
I opened my laptop to draft my usual scathing response for this very newspaper. I had the mortality statistics ready. I had the IPCC reports bookmarked. But as I sat on the veranda of my second home in Somerset, bathed in a glorious, unseasonable October heat, I uncorked a chilled bottle of 2023 Sussex Pinot Noir. I took a sip. I looked out over the sun-drenched hills. And I experienced a profound, terrible epiphany. Richard Tice is absolutely right.
For nearly three decades, I have exhausted myself trying to save you people from yourselves. I have written seven books on sustainability. I have chained myself to the gates of fossil fuel terminals. I have subjected myself to vegan cheese for a quarter of a century. I traded my beloved gas range for a miserable, humming induction hob that cannot properly sear a scallop. I have spent thousands of hours in poorly ventilated community halls, begging the general public to understand the existential threat of their own carbon footprint. And how did you repay me? You complained about the cost of heat pumps. You kept buying three-pound t-shirts from fast fashion conglomerates. You stubbornly refused to give up your annual easyJet flights to Tenerife.
I am tired. I am so deeply, bone-wearyingly tired. And frankly, the Sussex Pinot Noir is spectacular. It has notes of black cherry, a hint of toasted oak, and the unmistakable, lingering finish of a dying Gulf Stream.
It is time we admitted that the transition to net-zero is effectively dead, not because of right-wing politicians, but because the average voter simply lacks the moral fiber to compost properly. The working class has proven that they would rather cling to their internal combustion engines than secure the future of the biosphere. Tice has merely looked at this grim reality and decided to stop pretending. He has recognized that trying to stop the climate emergency is, as he accurately phrased it, "arrogant." Who are we to stand in the way of a mass extinction event that the electorate so clearly voted for?
During a private COP28 panel on stranded assets with a Chevron vice president and a few select ESG portfolio managers, I floated this very idea. We were eating ethically sourced scallops, and I noted that perhaps the most sustainable thing we could do was simply let the temperature rise and buy property in the newly tropical Scottish Highlands. The room went quiet, but I saw the subtle nods of agreement from the hedge fund directors. They knew. We all knew. The planet is crossing a tipping point, and the only rational response is to make sure you have a really good air conditioning system and a well-stocked cellar.
Naturally, the nurses and medical experts are throwing a tantrum. The British Medical Association has issued breathless warnings about heatstroke, vulnerable populations, and overflowing emergency rooms. But if the NHS is genuinely so concerned about the environment, perhaps they should look inward. Do you have any idea how much single-use plastic is consumed in a modern intensive care unit? The sheer volume of disposable syringes and un-recycled surgical gowns is a catastrophic failure of scope-three emissions management. We are out of time, but go off about how we need to keep your unsustainable hospitals running at a comfortable 20 degrees Celsius.
Tice’s vision of the future is, in many ways, the ultimate green utopia for those of us who have earned it. Imagine a Britain where the dreary, endless drizzle of the twentieth century is replaced by a permanent Mediterranean climate. The South Downs are already transforming into the new Napa Valley. Last weekend, I attended a tasting at a boutique vineyard in Kent that simply would not have been possible without the heroic, globe-warming efforts of Big Oil and the oblivious commuting public.
The wine growers I spoke to are thrilled. They don't want net-zero. Net-zero means frost. Net-zero means their fragile vines dying in a late-April freeze. Tice understands that one man's climate catastrophe is another man's award-winning sparkling rosé.
The general public had their chance to embrace sustainable austerity, and they fundamentally failed the test, so we are officially pivoting to a strategy of gated hedonism.
Frobisher is right. We cannot let our sentimental attachment to low-lying coastal communities blind us to the incredible opportunities emerging in the viticulture sector. Yes, parts of East Anglia will inevitably return to the sea. Yes, the Thames Barrier will fail, and yes, millions will face unprecedented thermal stress. But have you tasted the 2024 vintage from Cornwall? It is a revelation.
The environmental movement has spent too long dealing in doom and gloom, punishing ourselves for the sins of the masses. I am done. I will no longer apologize for enjoying the warmth. I will not feel guilty for the sun on my face or the exquisite crispness of a domestic Chardonnay. Richard Tice may be a populist brute, but he is the only politician honest enough to admit that since the ship is sinking, we might as well enjoy the music on the upper deck. I will see you at the vineyard. Please try not to pass out from heat exhaustion on the driveway; it upsets the sommelier.