“Who emits more CO2? Men or women?”

As television debates about climate change go, this probably wouldn’t be termed the most absurd theme – there is heavier competition in the form of “Should schools teach about climate change?” (leaving one wondering why on earth not), “Do animals experience climate change?” (of course not, they don’t care how cold or hot it is, they just chill even if everything around and top of them is getting burnt out), and “Will climate change affect our economy & industry?” (Surely not, climate change will be careful only to affect poor people, and glaciers, and fish).

On April 22, considered the Earth Day – leaving some wonder if it meant the other days were not – CWN, one of the world’s most popular news TV channels, hosted the debate “Who emit more CO2? Men or Women?”.

There were varying accounts for the motivation behind the theme, but the most popular version held that it was suggested by the channel founder’s daughter Emma who had had a recent breakup with her boyfriend and wanted to take it out on men in general – backed, of course, by the supreme confidence that the women’s team would be the hands-down winners in such a debate.

After a goodish amount of efforts, which involved evaluating people who ranked high on popularity, spoke well, and knew something about climate change – a rather narrow intersection – the TV team had managed to rope in some exceptional people from both sexes.

Who indeed emit more CO2? Men or women? – The debate started between the all-men and all-women teams.

The women’s team got the chance to present their case first. All their team members would be given a brief chance to talk before it was men’s turn.

Lydia Bashley, the famous writer and feminist, spoke first. As expected, her arguments were trenchant and her looks, triumphant. She was followed by the well-known industrialist Mary Isholl, Grammy award-winning singer Amanda Knowles and finally by Anastasia Swain, the socialite daughter of the world’s most powerful shipping magnate. All their arguments were compelling – each backed by the force of logic and that of the tongue.

“Who whirrs around in big, fast cars?” There really was only one answer, wasn’t there?

“Which of the two is a bunch of couch-potatoes and are daily offenders when it comes to switching off the TV and the dishwasher?” The men on stage and in the audience sported sheepish smiles – a clear sign that the point had hit the bull’s eye.

“Who cares little or nothing about wasting food – whether at home or elsewhere?” On this point, some among the male sex felt that the modern woman was hardly an epitome of sustainable eating habits, but even they knew that the balance would still likely tilt against them.

“For whom are soccer scores more important than CO2 levels in the atmosphere?”

The sheepish smiles and sarcastic smirks on the men’s faces were, within a moment, replaced by winces – resulting from the absolute, universal truth in the argument, and accentuated by the fact that almost all men on stage were Chelsea fans. In the game against Man United just the previous day, their team had lost rather badly (2-5), and that too at Stamford Bridge, their home ground. Rioting was still being reported from Fulham.

Anastasia, who had spoken last and had hit on the soccer thing, only had to look at the men’s faces for the briefest moment to know that they had the debate in the bag. She doubted if anyone from the men’s team would even bother to speak after that knock-out punch about soccer scores. Having known many of the men on stage and their sports affinities quite well, she secretly thanked Man United for enhancing the effect, perhaps the first time a woman had so been fervently grateful about anyone or anything related to soccer.

One didn’t need extra-sensory skills to sense the way the wind was blowing. The writing, as the saying goes, was on the wall. The men’s team just had to go through the motions and then go home.

Richard, the men’s team leader, was supposed to speak first, but after the football punch, his wince was followed by a series of gulps, the latter resulting from the painful reminder of the loss of the 250 pounds he had bet on his team. Under such emotional distress, he thought it best to get the maverick in the team, Don Mistral, to start their team’s talk.

If there was one thing Don excelled at, it was performing under pressure. Ice-cool Don, they called him at school, and the adjective had stuck through college and career. The reminder about the Chelsea debacle minutes earlier had indeed fluttered his calm a tad bit, but he had recovered enough by the time Richard pushed him to take the mike.

Don went to the stage, looking absolutely unruffled, looked straight at the audience for a few seconds, and then said – whispered would have been a more accurate word, “I have really little to talk about women’s environmental offenses. I just wish to say a few words about an industry.”

Boos from the women in the audience were followed by faces made by Lydia and Amanda. Mary even spoke loud enough so he could hear, “Don, my dear friend, we are talking about you and us. Just leave the industry all alone! Or perhaps you should just give up!”

Don looked back at Mary, smiled a bit, coughed lightly and started, “The fashion industry emits twenty-eight times the CO2 emissions as all emissions from TVs, dishwashers and football matches added together.”

“Twenty-eight, ladies and gentlemen, twenty-eight,” he repeated, his voice no longer a whisper but fully blown, and it achieved the intended effect.

He did not have to proceed further. He could hear some rumbles from the women’s section, a few chairs screeching, and then he saw Mary, their team lead, signalling that they were giving a walkover.

The debate was over.

During the victory bash, held at a local pub that almost considered Richard its patron founder, he patted Don, “That was a fantastic knock-out statistic, old boy. I’m amazed you had such powerful data up your sleeve. Incredible, just incredible, the blow you gave them with the number twenty-eight, a fabulous number that will be etched in my memory forever. How indeed did you arrive at the estimate so quickly?”

“Well,” said Don, “I didn’t. It was just a guess.”

All the men’s team members, despite the effects the admirable booze was having on them, turned around and looked incredulously at Don.

“You mean, the number twenty-eight was just a guess?” It was Chander, his co-panelist. His jaw had dropped, and so almost had his booze bottle.

“Yep.”

“Hey,” stammered Richard, pretty much repeating Chander’s question to ensure that Don wasn’t kidding, “you really weren’t sure about the number twenty-eight?”

“No,” admitted Don, “but I was sure about something else.”

“What’s that?” asked Chander.

“I was sure that no one would know the CO2 emissions data for so many different uses.”