Oh, what a delightful spectacle we have here! Prince Charles, the man who speaks to plants, and Greta Thunberg, the Scandinavian oracle of eco-doom, have inadvertently staged a pantomime of green hypocrisy that would make even the most seasoned satirist blush with envy.
Firstly, let's consider the princely protagonist, Charles, who has been nattering on about the environment since the days when his hairline was still on speaking terms with his forehead. His green credentials, he insists, are impeccable. He talks of converting his 51-year-old Aston Martin to run on surplus white wine and whey from cheese-making, which sounds less like environmentalism and more like a recipe for a very exclusive cocktail party. And then there's the matter of solar panels and biomass boilers at his palaces - all very modern, but one suspects that the carbon emissions from maintaining royal estates might just tip the scales in the other direction.
Greta Thunberg, our earnest young heroine, has become the poster child for climate angst. She's the Joan of Arc of our age, only instead of hearing voices, she hears the ticking of a doomsday clock. Her journey to America, eschewing the sinful airplane for a yacht, was not just a statement but a performance of such sanctimonious purity that it could have been sponsored by the Church of Scientology. The yacht, Malizia II, owned by a Rothschild no less, was meant to be a paragon of zero-carbon travel, but one wonders about the carbon footprint of the crew's return flight to Europe, not to mention the champagne corks popping in celebration of her arrival.
Greta's message at the UN was as sharp as a Swedish winter: "How dare you!" she cried, with the righteous indignation of a teenager whose allowance has been docked. Yet, one might ponder, if her childhood was stolen by our empty words, how much of her innocence was traded for the spotlight of global activism?
The drama of their meeting is rich with irony. Here is Charles, the man who has spent a lifetime talking about the environment while living in a manner that would make even the most dedicated Greenpeace member wince. And there's Greta, whose very attendance at global summits seems to scream, "Look at me, I'm saving the planet!" - all while possibly increasing her own carbon footprint in ways that would make Al Gore’s documentary blush.
COP26 was billed as a turning point, but with Charles and Greta, it felt more like a theatrical intermission, where the audience could step outside for a cigarette, pondering if the next act would be any less absurd. Their shared stage was less about actionable change and more about the performance of concern - a pantomime where the villains are clear (all of us), the heroes are self-righteous (them), and the plot is as predictable as the British weather.
In this grand, green theatre, one must applaud the actors for their commitment to their roles, but one also hopes for a sequel where the script includes less "Blah, blah, blah" and more actual, tangible change. Because, dear readers, if history is any guide, the climate might just be the only thing not laughing at this show.