Prosperity before climate change action?

Hoax press release puts spotlight on Canada

This morning a group of protesters rolled out the welcome mat -- literally -- for Canada's prime minister, Stephen Harper, who arrived in Copenhagen today. They mingled with Christmas shoppers outside the Canadian embassy by the main shopping drag in Copenhagen. There was a quirky element to the protest, with a gift basket of treaties for the prime minister to sign presented at the embassy door, but the atmosphere was serious. Speakers included Naomi Klein, who has been very prominent on the activist circuits this week.

The demonstration was organised by the Indigenous Peoples of Canada and called for a stop to the extraction of oil from the tar sands region in Alberta. Tar sands mining is the most energy-intensive and environmentally damaging method of extracting oil. It also destroys Canada's boreal forests, which store a vast amount of carbon.

Canada also figured prominently on the climate change blogosphere today. A hoax press release, which was picked up by the Wall Street Journal, raised false hopes among Canadian campaigners. It outlined a drastic shift in the country's environmental policy, doubling greenhouse-gas reduction targets to 40 per cent below 1990 levels by 2020. But Ottawa responded quickly with a statement saying: "Canada's binding responsibility is to supply the world -- including its burgeoning developing portion -- with those means of transport, health and sustenance that prosperous markets require. Stopping short of these dictates would violate the very principles upon which our nations were founded, and endanger our very development."

"Without the dynamism of our oil sands industry, we in Canada would not have the energy -- moral, financial and literal -- to develop the alternative energy future the whole world craves," says Bruce Carson, a special adviser to Environment Canada.

Also released today was the Climate Change Performance Index report. The report was produced by the NGO German Watch, and ranks nations according to their environmental achievements. Canada was ranked 56th, out of 57 countries. Draft regulations on cap-and-trade in the country have been repeatedly delayed and are not expected until late 2010 at the earliest, while emissions continue to increase at 26 per cent over 1990 levels. In the past few months, the present administration has made it clear that it will ape US environmental policy, but continues to lag behind its neighbour in reducing emissions and investing in renewables.

Canada, the only nation to drop out of the Kyoto Protocol, has shown today that it will continue to put prosperity before climate change prevention. It could be a huge obstacle to achieving a transformative agreement this week.

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism