Mr. Punch explains why you are all doomed

It'll be all bloody helle fer ya

Them top and bottomy icey poles be gettin' all warm and slushy and whens theys melts--hrrr, hrrr--it'll slick up the Urth and all them terrie-ists'll be slidin' right outa thar hidey-holes up in tha hills and right inter yer laps like they was on buttered toboggans. Cold and wet-as-my-bum terrie-ists all riled up and orn'ry, ta add ta yer endless sea o'woes and troubles. Even more of em'll be blown outa where they be hidin' up in the tree-tops by the mitey winds from all them fro-shush hurry-canes; droppin' from tha heavens inta yer back-yards and touchin' yer dawters. Then, after that's all been done and spoken fer, all the satty-lites up in outy-space come crashin' down and bustin' open yer heads, flattenin' the rest of yer lyke pancakes. Then big rocks'll come rolling down the hills to crush yer bones ta dust. Yer doomed.