I wonder what he means by that?

If I read this article under a Delingpole or Booker byline, I'd emit an approving grunt or two. Maybe even half a tiny, despairing cheer. And shake my head, muttering, 'Yeah, but they'll never fucking learn, though, will they?'

But there, in the heart of darkness which is wrong about everything, all the time, we read a dilation on what to normal people has always been the bleeding self-evidently obvious by the man who gave his very name to the ecowankers of the world. Stap me. But not everything has changed, for dear old Moonbat allows himself a coda, a feeble final swipe at the eeeeeevil bastards who run the nukes which he now considers desirable.

But has he thought this through, thoroughly? Is he braced for being shunned by Lucas, Porritt and Huhne? (O Death, where is thy sting, etc.) For being called a 'Clegg' and burned in effigy on Brighton beach? Set upon on moonless nights by keening gangs of leaderless, marauding watermelons clad in nettle-dyed home-weave hempen cloth and wielding enormous lumps of tofu? How can he do this to them?

But let us be charitable. Let us suppose he does mean it. That George Monbiot has seen the light. Well, a glimmer, anyway. (He remains a pious warble gloamist.) But even that is bloody amazing.