Matthew Phillips is the Co-founder of sustainability comms agency, Beautiful Corporations, and former advisor at the United Nations Climate Secretariat. He makes videos about climate change as Climate Gentleman.
Matthew Phillips (AKA Climate Gentleman) makes videos about sustainability and boldly blogs about related subjects.
Matthew and the team are currently producing their debut video: An Introduction to Climate Gentleman.
I am not suggesting that we blinker ourselves to the prospect of Trump's regime - and, in particular, to the appointment Scott Pruitt as Head of the Environmental Protection Agency - but before the official inauguration, I believe we should hold our nerve.
In an age when social media reigns supreme and our celebrities are subjected to having their nude, private photographs gleefully circulated online without their permission, it is important to be reminded that, once upon a time, some public figures were beyond the public's grasp. This separation allowed space for stories to emerge and idols to be born.
I am bored to tears with how climate change is being portrayed in the media. We - the public - are routinely subjected to commentary that is abstract, dull and, all too frequently, delivered by sandaled individuals who it would be unthinkable for me to introduce to my parents.
I was recently in <em>Caffé Nero</em> - don't ask - with a group of environmentally-conscious friends when someone asked, "would you consider yourself a 'Green'?" Everyone raised their hands in agreement, but I could only look on, disgusted, before blurting out, "I am definitely NOT a 'Green'!" Not since watching George Michael's sorry performance at the Olympics Closing Ceremony have I experienced such an acute sense of revulsion.
I agree emphatically with the cause of the protesters. Really I do! I simply question their methods and, 'frackly', I can't imagine anything worse than super-gluing myself to a fence. If fracking does indeed become a permanent feature of UK energy policy and production, it is likely to bore thousands of large holes into our 'green and pleasant land'.
There is only one thing more depressing than being single on the 14 February and that's to actually be in a relationship. Whilst bachelors and bachelorettes worldwide will be able to drown their sorrows in a lonely den of iniquity, I will be forced to join the charade of institutionalised romance.
Well, dream on dreamers. The most we can expect from 2013 is the onslaught a triple-dip recession and a new series of Downton Abbey. Admittedly, the latter eventuality is not entirely disagreeable, but one can't base their sole raison d'etre on a BBC period drama.
The Chinese zodiac tells us that 2012 was the year of the dragon. It wasn't; 2012 was the year of the Boris. While George Osborne looked vampiric beside an increasingly choleric Cameron, Mayor Johnson marched through the capital with the air of an all-conquering war hero.
I don't feel the need to rid myself of inhibitions prior to a gig because, in all sincerity, the stage is one of the few places that I can be entirely myself, warts and all. If you can't amplify your neuroses and insecurities at a show then, frankly, what's the point?
Imagine teaching Jackson Pollock how to correctly apply a paintbrush, or reprimanding Keats and Nabokov for their abominable spelling. Likewise, it probably wouldn't have harmed Lou Reed to have learnt how to properly pluck a guitar. Remember, art is not always about godlike displays of virtuosity.
What vexes me most is not that these artists are indolently committing crimes against the English language, but that they are wasting a hallowed opportunity. Words add depth, colour and personality to a song. In fact, they become even more powerful when projected onto a musical backdrop, which is why I shudder when lyricists make a conscious decision to rhyme nonsensical syllables.
Where my clemency for sunglasses begins to wither however, is when artists, particularly singers, wear their ocular devices with a perpetuity that is offensive. No one is guiltier of this crime than the prophet Bono.
So, why is it that, unlike my fellow comrades assembled around me in this café, I still desire, nay, demand, a record contract? After all, I can still create my music and release it on a plethora of digitally-based platforms. I don't need the permission of one of the music industry's behemoth labels to be a musician, do I?
It can't be denied that Twitter has completely redefined the relationship between performers and their fans. Once upon a time, our glitterati were untouchable and infallible. Nowadays, one is likely to receive a personal invitation from Peter Doherty with instructions to burgle his house, graffiti his walls and scandalise his personal bidet.
It seems to me that frontmen principally fall into two categories: the cloyingly modest or the intolerably arrogant. Rarely is a perfect balance struck between these stereotypes and, more frequently, we find artists yo-yoing between the two like unhinged schizophrenics.
My band, Kites, once had a slogan, which read 'All style; no substance'. At the time, this mantra was designed to be facetious. You see, I have unveiled contempt for performers who are so consumed by their own highfalutin that they forget to create a show for their audience.