I'm no gooseberry fool

Paul Carter takes a look at his carbon footprint – or lack of it

Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past few months, you’ll have noticed that there’s been a lot of talk about the environment. All these buzzwords and phrases have been bandied about by all and sundry, and now every time you turn on the TV there’s someone harping on about their carbon footprint like they’re a world-renowned expert in geothermal physics, when in truth you know they’re a housewife from Romford.

It seems that we’re just not allowed to do anything anymore. You can’t shop with plastic bags, drinking bottled water’s a definite no-no, you certainly can’t fly, and if you’re spotted driving a 4x4, you’ll be treated with the same level of social hatred as admitting you enjoy spending your weekends merrily kicking sacks of cats.

You’re not even allowed to sit under a patio heater and enjoy a quiet pint in peace without some cardiganned weirdo with a beard and a fondness for tweed blaming you for single-handedly flooding Belgium.

Now, regular readers of my monthly tirades probably won’t be surprised to know that I take objection to all of this incessant nannying. Not because I don’t care about the environment – I love garden centres. The main reason I object is that, as a disabled person, I think I’m actually doing pretty well in the green stakes, thanks very much. Let me explain.

For a start – I’m only little. Being smaller than most other people, it follows logically that I take in less oxygen than others, and as a result, I give out less CO2, so I’m ahead of the game already.

I don’t know if there’s any scientific basis for this, but it fits my argument, so I’m going to run with it, metaphorically at least; actual running would probably offset my now healthy carbon surplus, so that’s out of the question.

I’m an eco-shopper too – staff at my local supermarket now know to stuff my lager and frozen pizzas into as few bags as possible. Not purely because I’m conscientious (though obviously I am), but because it’s far easier for me to wobble home with a bag on each arm, even though it does make me look like a pair of scales. I absolutely refuse to get one of those little tartan trollies. (Where do people get them from anyway?)

OK, so by now we’ve ascertained that I’m as green as gooseberries, just by being me. That’s before I say that, thanks to Ken Livingstone giving disabled Londoners free public transport, I don’t even need to drive anywhere.

I’m not perfect though.

I must admit to leaving my TV on standby, but that’s borne out of sheer unadulterated sloth, rather than having anything to do with the fact that I can’t get up and press the on switch. But come on, I’ve saved the planet enough for one day.

I deserve to put my legs up.