En satir inspirerad av http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJr60IpZcyU - den engelska versionen av Tage Danielssons skröna om "K-B J:s julafton". Med det vill jag önska alla GOD JUL - så småningom också GOTT NYTT ÅR! Drick inte för mycket julklappar, ät inte för mycket glögg, öppna inte pepparkakorna i förväg, och bekymra er inte så mycket om vädret. (Min lilla drapa är fri att återposta och sprida vidare för den som så önskar.) --AE HARRY README?S CHRISTMAS MISSION Once upon a time at Christmas a long time ago poor, independent scientists could still be seen walking around in the laboratories. Up to that time it hadn?t been shameful to be a scientist, and professors and PhDs didn't fill Mainstream Media with opinion pieces. But when the Christmas this story is about was approaching there had been a change in the research climate. There was a fixing and data massaging, peer reviewing and boot licking, temperature adjusting and repackaging, due to a vast increase in climate research funding that made the scientific community richer and average citizen poorer. In the main Telegraph Office in the capital city stood Harry Readme sorting IP packets. Harry Readme was a young computer programmer, but there he stood sorting IP packets. During the days just before Christmas the Telegraph Office hired programmers to work all night, because the regular personnel sat and played poker with emission rights. Now, perhaps you feel sorry for Harry because he had to stand all night sorting incoming packets, but really there is no reason to feel sorry for him at all. He came from a well-to-do family. His father owned an environmental organisation and became richer every day selling individual emission rights and pictures of cute polar bear cubs. While Harry stood and directed packets saying "Buy Viagra!" to the bit bucket of the virile department he thought of Adam Smith. Adam Smith was Harry's idol. Free trade, a market that optimises resources, an invisible hand that nudged a bit for a just cause, healthy economic growth, defending the chastity of politicians, keeping them from increasing streams of taxation, and reverence for lawmaking limitations. That was some of the things that to Harry seemed to be the best life had to offer. And of course, the principle of empirical proof: let the economy grow to give to the poor. At four o'clock in the morning, with a sigh of relief, Harry threw the last Nigeria mail in the Telegraph Office spam filter and went home through the empty server rack corridor. His steps echoed against the computer casings. Let the economy grow to give to the poor. Christmas was near. These unfortunate people for which globalisation is the salvation. To all men a free market. The beacon of hope is lit again. Will that beacon shine on those who wander in politicised economies? Dancing around the Kapital book of a very red man with a huge beard? Cold shines the system LED on those who have no homepage. Let the economy grow to give to the poor. Let the economy grow to give to the poor. It was then that Harry Readme made his decision. At half past twelve the next day Harry was waken by his loving mother. He got up, ate his two biodynamically grown soyaburgers with bean sprouts, sneaked past his fathers firewall, swiped his address-book file and left for the Telegraph Office. He began sorting incoming packets with the repetitious monotony of a child who had played World of Warcraft for 27 hours. But his eye checked the receiver of every packet. It was particulary the status of each addressee that interested him. Receivers like Wattsupwiththat, Joannenova, Bishop Hill and James Delingpole he put in the outgoing channels without further ado. But when he found a receiver at Climate Research Unit, Realclimate or Penn State University he made a copy that he slipped into a special directory he had created. That was also the place for packet copies to the likes of Phil Jones, Michael Mann, Kevin Tranberth and others in his father's address book. Let the economy grow to give to the poor. By supper time the directory was well-filled with packets. He stayed behind while the others had something to eat, and as soon as he was alone he googled for fundings and turnovers. Climate Research Unit, 23 million in climate research funding. The packets to CRU were kept in the directory. So did all others whose funding or turnover was big enough. Even packets for his own father from aunt Martha were kept in the special directory. No favouritism. Equality for everyone. Now the directory was full to the top. He PGP encrypted and zipped it and E-mailed it to his own address. The next day was Christmas Eve. Harry was waken at twelve o?clock by his loving mother who stood beside the bed with tinsel in her hair and a tray of fair-trade coffee and ecological biscuits and said: "Harry, our WiFi was very sluggish last night." "Oh," Harry answered. "I mailed me some IP packets that I have to sort." "Harry, surely they don't expect you to work on Christmas Eve." "One has to do one's duty in life, you see mother. A job well done gives economic growth which is the foundation upon which society is built." Harry?s loving mother looked at her boy, moved and proud. "My dear little boy." Harry soon booted his computer and opened a VPN tunnel to a mail host. He assembled the packets and re-mailed the contents. With every mailing he enclosed a message: MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM AN UNKNOWN TRUTH SEEKER The living room was already filled with the Christmas spirit despite that father Readme's environmental organisation had proclaimed it as a Solidarity Christmas. Christmas songs came from the radio. Other Christmas songs came from the TV set. Everyone was good and kind to the depths of their being. In short Christmas had come. In the kitchen his father prepared some beet juice. The vegetable soup stood on the stove and stank "The very merriest of Christmases to you my good boy. Would you like to taste the soup, my son," the father asked. Before Harry could think of an excuse to hide he declined his mother yelled from the living room: "I have finished the tree now, Charles. Now come here and put the propeller on top. Look, isn't it beautiful and in harmony with nature!" (Couldn't one among the decoration flags spot some from certain totalitarian systems, that also liked nature and was fond of dogs and all animals, but not so much certain people?) This was father's big job at Christmas. Putting on top of the Christmas tree a wind turbine that anyone could buy from his environmental organisation, but which of course he took for free. With sounds of celebration the family ate its Christmas Eve meal. For Harry the rest of the evening passed in an atmosphere of inner joy, a feeling that good deeds give to those who do them. Christmas Eve ebbed away with that mutual feeling of devoutness that only an old propaganda documentary on TV can give people. But just as Al Gore was climbing his blinking ladder to get right to the top and groaned with a face even redder than usual, the telephone rang. Mother answered: "Hello! Auntie Martha. Merry Christmas. What? An action plan against nuclear power? No we haven't received any act... What? Trespassing? Sabotage the turbines? Sorry auntie Martha, but we didn't receive it. Do that auntie Martha. Good bye. Take care of yourse... Charles! Auntie Martha sent us an action plan against nuclear power." "Oh well, thank heavens it didn't arrive. Now, be quiet, I'm watching Al Gore!" "But Charles, she hang up on me. She said she was going to phone the director general of the Telegraph Office." "Poor man. I expect that he is trying to watch Al Gore. Now, be quiet." "Dear me, how strange that it should have got lost. Can you understand it, Harry? You work at the Telegraph Office." During a fraction of a second Harry went through an emotional crisis. Lie like the IPCC to his mother on Christmas Eve? No. Resolutely tell the truth? Yes. "The distribution may have been disturbed when I made a copy of the mail and sent it to climate critics." "What? What!" his father said. "What did I hear you say you did?" "I gave auntie Martha's energy sabotage plan to someone who would have use of the information." "Have you gone mad, boy!" "I have taken lots of other E-mails from environmentalists and sent them to climate critics." "What! I've harboured a fascist in my breast!" Charles Readme was one of those who thought that anyone who wanted more market economy and less politics was a fascist. "But father, you said yourself that you were beginning to wonder if nuclear power isn't after all safe and economical!" "Said? Said! It was our environmental dogma! What do you think all the others will say? And who else have you taken E-mail from, besides me?" "They are ticked off in my copy of your address book." "I don't believe this. Don't you see what you have done! You may be subject to extremely vague allegations from a Swedish activist prosecutor and have a European arrest warrant issued against you." "I'm prepared to take the consequences, father. All I've done is to give a little information to those poor critics who don't dominate Mainstream Media and have access to all of our tax money to environmental groups and in climate research grants." Charles Readme was almost strangled by his Christmas anger. "First thing tomorrow my boy, you're coming with me to beg forgiveness from all the people you have stolen E-mail from. And off to bed. You can't stay up and watch the end of the film.? Harry went to bed. He had already seen in virtually every newspaper how the film ended, since all of them every day devastated huge areas of Amazonas with countless pages of climate and environmental articles. In just a few years the ocean would rise with twenty feet and drown New York City. Harry could hardly stop giggling at this absurd idea. Let us now stop a moment and ask a few questions. Wouldn't Harry's father's heart have softened if he with his own eyes could have seen the joy his son had spread in constantly attacked and harassed layers of the public debate? Could he have remained angry if he had caught a glimpse of the home of Hari B'tram of India who now thanks to trade, industrialisation and globalisation had a well-paid job weaving silk ties for export and now better could provide for his children? And how could he have remained indignant if he had seen the Tanzanian widow Llebet Hartafildebe who now didn't have to work 14 hours per day in the fields and had a good job sewing sports shoes? Such questions will never be answered. Charles Readme fell asleep this Christmas night in anger. Not even the morning show's compulsory interview with their own reporter, earlier working for Greenpeace, with a message of zero growth and sustainable energy from solar cells in near-arctic countries, could make Charles Readme?s disposition any more charitable. He was a man of justice who didn't want to be mixed up in any climate skepticism. Later that day he took the address file and his son and went on a pilgrimage to a number of people who were deep into the environmentalist movement. Naturally they took the car powered with sustainable wood gas, despite it took several minutes to start. The chairman of Friends of Green Earth had a mahogany door and a maid. "May we speak to Mr Bergdahl. It's about an E-mail getting astray." They were shown into a large room were Mr Bergdahl drew up the next demonstrations plans on a green cloth. "Good afternoon, sir. Well, the thing is I'm afraid my son has sent one of your E-mails to a environmental critic." "I wanted to say I'm sorry," Harry said. "But it is just that you already have all the media in your pocket and don't need that mail, which could spread a little sunshine in the lower ranks of the bottom ladder of public debate." Mr Bergdahl stood with his mouth open. "Well, my goodness, if that isn't the nicest thing I've heard since I joined Green Youth. I've began wonder why warming has stopped for over a decade and that the climate models are unable even to predict if the lamp goes on when I open the fridge. Have some cake!" "Oh, it must be uncle Arthur's plan to hire a private detective to find libel against Climateaudit," Mrs Bergdahl said. "He called yesterday to ask about it. I do hope it was a good plan, because that's what I told him." "Yes, that's what we usually say when they ask. One can't keep track of all the rubbish that the clog-wearing loonies in the movement keep sending us. Thank you for relieving us from the private detective stunts." Harry's journey of apology more and more turned into a regular journey of triumph. Everywhere he went he was treated like a hero. And the joy of the former environmentalists whose mail had been leaked knew no bounds. Charles Readme's embarrassment over his son's behaviour was gradually replaced by a proud smile. Visiting one of the last E-mail addressees he suggested that the whole thing should have a name, maybe resembling how some crooks burgled a political party to bug it. "Well, of course, I may not be the right person to suggest this. All the same, it seems to me that the general consensus of opinion make it appropriate for me to suggest that we find a name for that climate alarmists for years have spread lies, corrupted research, stabbed critical scientists in the back, manipulated the computer modelling code and don't even believe in their own message themselves. I suggest we call all this: Climategate!" People around enthusiastically shouted "Climategate, hurrah!" and hoisted Harry into the air. "Ho-ho! Come along my boy!" When they got home night had already fallen and a Christmas star glittered above. "Come here, my dear. Our son is a kind and humble and realistic human being," was Charles Readme's joyful message to the family when they came home. "Oh, what blessings for the world economy this Christmas has brought," Harry?s mother said. Note the rational look in her eyes. This story took place when a dominating pseudo-scientific dogma was replaced with the birth of rationalism. --Ahrvid Engholm (ahrvid@xxxxxxxxxxx) -- ahrvid@xxxxxxxxxxx / Be an @SFJournalen Twitter Follower for all the latest news in short form! / Gå med i SKRIVA - för författande, sf, fantasy, kultur (skriva-request@xxxxxxxxxxxxx, subj: subscribe) / Om Ahrvids novellsamling Mord på månen: http://www.zenzat.se/zzfaktasi.html C Fuglesang: "stor förnöjelse...jättebra historier i mycket sannolik framtidsmiljö"! / Läs AE i nya Vildsint Skymningslandet, årets mest spännande antologi - finns bl a på SF-Bokhandeln! / YXSKAFTBUD, GE VÅR WCZONMÖ IQ-HJÄLP! (DN NoN 00.02.07) ----- SKRIVA - sf, fantasy och skräck * Äldsta svenska skrivarlistan grundad 1997 * Info http://www.skriva.bravewriting.com eller skriva- request@xxxxxxxxxxxxx för listkommandon (ex subject: subscribe).