The global warming lobby, and the terrier who won’t let go two lines
If the devil is in the detail then Satan’s foremost emissary on earth must be Christopher Booker. The Booker does the kind of proper, old-school things that journalists hardly ever bother with in this new age of aggregation and flip bloggery: he digs, he makes the calls, he reads the small print, he takes up the cause of the little man and campaigns, he speaks truth to power without fear or favour. In my eyes — admittedly biased because he has become a bit of a mate — Booker is way more significant and heroic a journalist than that fellow Old Salopian hack (and tedious leftie) Paul Foot. Indeed I’d rate him among the greatest of the age.
Like all prophets without honour in their own country, Booker doesn’t have many laurels to show for his efforts. Sure his Sunday Telegraph column has an enormous, dedicated following (as the occasional new editor has discovered when he has made the mistake of trying to sack him) but in Fleet Street (or whatever we call it nowadays) he’s still generally considered a bit of a maverick: swivel-eyed, eccentric, obsessive, probably quite good at what he does — and a jolly nice chap, by all accounts — but definitely not a part of polite journalistic society.
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