Save the planet. Move to Milton Keynes.

I had a crisis of conscience the other day that saw me arm-deep in plate scrapings, filthy nappies and the contents of my Dyson.
My crime was to accidentally throw away a plastic bottle. Now I know I’m meant to put it in the blue bin, not the black one, and if that single bottle was to find its way to a landfill site the entire planet would spontaneously combust, but I must admit I thought ‘sod it’, and walked away.
By the time I had reached the back door (approx 15 steps) I could no longer live with myself and went back to rescue the poor little Fruit Shoot.
There was, of course, also the threat of a council jobsworth diving out from under the bushes and hitting me with a £1,000,000 fine for putting the wrong type of plastic in the wrong type of plastic bin.
He would know this because he had an infrared bluetooth link-up with the pea-sized camera that had been injected into the bin lid to record everything that was chucked in, as well as my movements, which could then be cross referenced with the CCTV camera probably hidden in the lamppost outside my two-year-old’s bedroom window, which can probably see into my office and therefore can see exactly what I’m writing right now.
I can assure them they don’t need to. I know how to spell snoop, so there’s no need to check up on me.
Anyhow, an hour later I read that the University of Phoenix are building a 29,000-seater stadium, complete with roof, that can be entirely air conditioned so the Yanks don’t get hot when they’re running around.
It reaches 100 degrees for the months in Pheonix, so rather than move the football season to suit the cooler weather and inconvenience themselves, they decide to screw everyone else who is trying to save the planet.
I figured I’d have to not recycle around 20 million Fruit Shoot’s before I even came close to wreaking wasting the kind of energy one hour’s of football would use up, so there doesn’t seem much point really, other than doing my bit and, more satisfyingly, sticking two fingers up at the little man from the council hiding in my bushes.
Still we must try. Or so we are told. Because, yes, the planet is dying.
How do we know? Because the white rhino is apparently close to extinction, making the environmentalists, or just mentalists as they are, all weepy.
Poachers are still chasing what little white rhinos are left but the do-gooders have come up with a novel scheme to save them – move them to Milton Keynes. Last month two of the beasts took a plane away from the land of deserts to a zoo in the land of roundabouts.
Given the choice, I think if I was a rhino I’d rather stay and take my chance.