With the exception of people who think Princess Diana was abducted by Bigfoot, it is generally accepted that the actions of humanity are causing dramatic and probably irreversible changes to our natural environment. Some of this is down to heavy industry, Lynx Africa and the failure to recycle enough Evian bottles, but the other 90% is because British families take the selfish decision to fly abroad for holidays rather than getting on a boat to a closer, more traditional destination. Save the planet: visit Trinity. I think it has a ring to it.

What keeps me awake at night is that although we know that the average global temperature and sea levels will inevitably rise, the complicated flows of cold air and warm water around the globe mean that it is much harder to predict the effects on individual bits of the planet. Headline catastrophes like hurricanes, flash flooding and Donald Trump’s hair are already well-known, but what is less understood is the long-term effect of climate change on the most important environments of all: small islands.  To ensure that nothing comes as a surprise, it is essential that we in Jersey consider all possible scenarios – apart from the one where climate change isn’t real and coral bleaching is a conspiracy made up by Greenpeace.

Scenario 1: Jersey gets a lot warmer

At first, this sounds like a great idea. The Island will be guaranteed a summer every year, Jersey Royals can be supplemented by watermelon and mangoes and every home in the island will have its own Fantastic Tropical Garden. The Caymans will no longer hold the crown as “biggest sandpit full of accountants.” This rose-tinted view of Jersey crossed with a Malibu advert is very attractive, which may explain the swivel-eyed hostility towards environmentalism on the part of retired Islanders who read the Daily Mail. Unfortunately, like almost anything contained in the Mail, it is also the least likely scenario. This is partly for solid sciency reasons (our relatively temperate climate is caused by the movements of the Gulf Stream, which climate change may disrupt or end completely) but also because it ignores the social effects of a tropical Europe on our surrounding neighbours. Yes, a few more degrees on the thermostat could mean bikinis in March, but your bikini body will be much less sexy if all the green places that used to grow your food are now impassable deserts roamed by AK47-toting climate refugees. Knowing the French it is likely they would protect us to some degree by eating any hostile zebras that spread upwards from the southern hemisphere, but garlic butter is next to useless on malaria-carrying mosquitoes or cannibal bikers from Mad Max Fury Road.

Odds of a tropical island paradise: 20 to 1

Your odds in the Thunderdome against a mutant biker baboon with Zika: 40 to 1

Scenario 2: Jersey gets much colder

As outlined in scenario #1, Jersey benefits from the warmth generated by global weather patterns. If those fail, then we are more likely to be living in somewhere that resembles Iceland. I don’t mean that we will be surrounded by bottles of Tango and doner kebab pizzas, but that we’ll be eking out a grim existence on a giant freezing rock – with fewer volcanoes than real Iceland but less chance of encountering Björk. We won’t have to worry about mutant antelope, but there is a very real possibility that an ice-bridge from St Malo will expose the Eastern parishes to attacks from wolves, polar bears and frost giants. I will concede that we could probably live without Grouville, but there is no chance that our ice-depressed economy would muster enough cash to build a giant wall and prevent the White Walkers from surging into St Saviours. 

Odds that winter is coming: 3 to 1

Your odds that an estate agent will try and charge you 200 frozen seagulls for an igloo without canoe parking: 1 to 3.

Scenario 3: Jersey is flooded and is lost forever beneath the waves

It is thought that the ancient philosopher Plato invented the myth of Atlantis as an allegory for the hubris of successful, independent city-states that were nonetheless highly vulnerable to global forces outside their control. I’m sure that has no relevance to Jersey whatsoever, but it is inarguable that our most valuable land is only a metre or so above sea level. Although St Helier could certainly do with a wash, it is unlikely that what passes for civilisation in Jersey could survive if town were dragged back into the salty depths. It would be literally impossible to get a hot meal after 8.30pm. Considering how angry Jersey people get when one lane of the avenue is closed, it is easy to imagine the descent into savagery and barbarism that would occur if our entire population had to share the Route du Nord. All that would be left of us for future historians would be a pile of skulls at Fremont Point and some ancient carvings depicting John Nettles fighting an octopus. 

Odds that somebody will release the Kraken: 14 to 1

Odds that your children will evolve gills as a result of agro-chemicals in the water supply: 3 to 2

Scenario 4: Jersey defies the ocean and becomes an island fortress

Even today, the greatest hostility to the science that explains climate change (or indeed any science whatsoever) can be found in those parts of the Island that are closest to sea level. Residents who endure flooding every other year will steadfastly insist that science is wrong, and that it’s merely coincidence that their garden is full of sea lettuce and lobsters are laying their eggs in the downstairs bathroom. On one level this is terrifying, but I always say that if life gives you lemons then you should hoard them to prevent the worst effects of scurvy. No, what I really mean is that we might have to work on turning this dogged refusal to accept the logic of rising water into something of a strength. If the Dutch can survive for centuries by stubbornly insulating themselves against the reality of water and its relationship to gravity, then there’s nothing to stop Jersey just extending its sea walls upwards until we are living at the bottom of a giant chimney. If we build outwards as well as upwards then the sea walls can double as a place to build new flats, and perhaps a very, very steep airport runway. It would be like the city in Bioshock, or the undersea paradise in The Little Mermaid, and you don’t need a singing crab to tell you how great that could be. 

Odds that it’s better down where it’s wetter: 100 to 1

Odds that the Condor Ferry would need to be replaced by the Red October: 7 to 2

The citizens of foreign nations often accuse the British of being pessimists. To the fiery Mediterraneans or uninhibited North Americans we are written off as the emotionally-stunted denizens of a culture so depressing that watching Eastenders or listening to Morrissey records is seen as something that would cheer you up.

I won’t deny there’s some truth in the idea that cold tea runs through our veins, but I also think that this view of Britain neglects an area of life where we are surprisingly, unfailingly optimistic. That area is not love, art, or the pursuit of world peace – but the continued popularity of camping as a leisure activity. Given that we live in a part of the world where summer often just means warmer rain, we really, really love to sleep in tents. You could set up a campsite in the burning sulphurous clouds of Venus, and British people would stick it out as long as there was somewhere to buy beer and the opportunity to char-grill a packet of bangers.

For most people the gateway drug to camping is either a cheap family holiday or a music festival. Both involve similar levels of grassy discomfort and baked bean consumption, but have very different rules about what you can do with a Tizer bottle full of urine – even if you do happen to bump into them at a family campsite it’s bad form to throw it at the Red Hot Chilli Peppers when your nan is sat in a deckchair reading TV Quick. You can learn an awful lot about a British person by observing their toilet habits when there’s a line for the portaloo, and I would argue that the decline of our civilisation can be charted by our decreasing willingness to politely stand in line until our bladders burst.

Just pitch a tent and, regardless of what you do with your wee, a great time will be had. I merely want to share my love of dewy flysheets with any camping virgins out there. Maybe you haven’t camped because your family is from St Ouen and doesn’t understand why anybody would voluntarily go back to sleeping on a pile of soil, but believe me you don’t know what you’re missing. For those about to camp, we salute you.

#1: First, think of a good place to pitch your tent

Sounds obvious, but your wild sleeping experience isn’t going to get off to the best start if you decide to set up camp behind the portaloos at a festival, in a field full of mad cows or in a bit of countryside exposed to random inbreds and tractor-driving serial killers. The last one is obviously a joke – because every bit of the countryside is exposed to those things.  You aren’t booking a five star hotel, but you do need to find somewhere that offers soft grass and a relaxing environment, but isn’t so far away from civilisation that you get caught short and have to spend four days eating grubs and wiping your bum with a damp leaf. Unless that’s your aim, Mr Grylls.

#2: Make sure you’ve packed the things you need

Subject to your preference for surviving on earthworms, you’ll need to remember that Amazon doesn’t deliver to a muddy field in Wales, even if SlipKnot are playing there that weekend. You’ll have to take all the essentials – beer, vodka, Jaffa Cakes, insulin – as well as a high-tech sleeping bag to stay warm and incubate some terrible baked bean farts.  It’s also a good idea to triple check you packed all the bits for your tent, as there’s nothing like getting back from a drunken ramble to find that your decision to skimp on pegs has resulted in your temporary home being blown into a bubbling reservoir of goat slurry.

Jaffa Cakes might be a deal-breaker, but you must resist the urge to bring everything from your house. You’re supposed to be experiencing nature, so if you catch yourself trying to pack your Xbox then you might as well save petrol by spending the weekend sleeping in your garden and eating Iceland ready meals with a spork.

#3: Leave all non-essentials behind

Jaffa Cakes might be a deal-breaker, but you must resist the urge to bring everything from your house. You’re supposed to be experiencing nature, so if you catch yourself trying to pack your Xbox then you might as well save petrol by spending the weekend sleeping in your garden and eating Iceland ready meals with a spork. It’s okay to bring your phone, to record pictures of your fellow campers picking river leeches off their bums and being dive-bombed by angry crows, but a general rule is if you can get 3G in your camping spot you’re probably going to get your shoes stolen by cider drinkers whilst you’re asleep.

#4: Accept that your entertainment options are quite limited

Much of the countryside doesn’t even offer access to Netflix if you have a house, let alone if your (temporary) home is a sodden tent. The only entertainment you will have is provided by nature itself or the other people you’ve brought with you. The traditional British way to address the frightening reality of time spent in the countryside is to cycle through a series of bland conversations about how much it is raining, how green the fields are and how very, very nice it is to be outside away from TV and the internet. Say it enough times and you’ll be convinced. You can also play travel Scrabble, but be wary of the number of campsite stabbings that occur because nobody can agree on legal two letter words involving the letter J.

#5: Embrace the great outdoors

Some people think that British people love camping so much because it eventually finishes, and then we get a couple of weeks feeling smug that we’re lucky enough to live somewhere that has a proper mattress and ventilation to let methane out. I prefer to think it’s because camping lets us embrace a primal connection to our ancestral landscape, so ensure you don’t return to civilisation without first seizing the opportunity to remove your clothes, smear your body in mud and sensually rub yourself against some trees. This is still appropriate (encouraged even) if camping at the Glastonbury Festival or anywhere where more than 10% of tents are teepees or yurts.  However, don’t get carried away and try to embrace a primal connection to any animals. Even if you aren’t somewhere that has bears or mountain lions, even bumble bees, otters and cuddly sheep will happily destroy the hated human interloper if they get half a chance. Rural types are also quite picky about who gets to embrace a primal connection to their animals, so ask permission first and be prepared to wait in line

if it’s a Friday.