A scintilla of interest crept in when a nutty scientist, Guy McPherson, said: “I can’t imagine there’ll be a human on the planet in 2030.” He feared methane oozing from the oceans, so had filled a cellar in New Mexico with tinned food. But after two minutes he gave way to Nye yelping with joy at a future of the floating cities and synthetic trees. By then the climate of dullness was irreversible and I was sinking beneath the waves.