The English talk about nothing but the weather. We do this to avoid talking about ritual goat sodomy, which would otherwise be the first thing on our minds, I think. This is my honest belief. It would decimate my world-view if it was demonstrated to be untrue. At the moment there’s more weather to talk about than normal. A couple of days ago we got within a degree (centigrade) of the hottest temperature ever recorded in the UK. It is – bluntly – stinkingly uncomfortably depressingly miserably oppressively hot.
Now – before you even start – everyone who lives in places that actually get much hotter than this (say in Africa example or – maybe – on the Sun) is bound to find the whole idea of it being really hot in the UK kind of funny. “Ha ha,” they’re almost certainly thinking as they pump out another two or three pints of blood-heavy sweat, “These English people will complain about even the smallest of heat-waves. Once when I was strapped in an oven in the Sahara for ten weeks with cayenne pepper inserted into my rectum, I complained less than this weakling English pigdog.”
Well screw you buster! First things first – compare and contrast the BBC’s current European weather map with the one for North America. We’re stomping all over your weather. I think London’s currently beaten only by Texas and certain particularly gay areas around Miami. Next – bear in mind that English homes are – at best – designed to keep the rain off and the heat in. They are not designed to be cool and refreshing idylls amid the melting pavements. No – British homes are apparently designed for a country with a climate so temperate that any weather that strays from a ten degree range between ‘moist and chilly’ and ‘moist and fresh’ is considered almost insanely avante garde. Thirdly, as a people – we’re just not bloody used to it!
I can feel this post just kind of petering out as I run out of body salts (should I lick my own arm, would that help?) and my brain shuts down forever. No doubt I’ll return for another stab at completing it in one of my many many nightly trips back to the computer that I take when I get bored of lying in my own sweat. Writhing in discomfort isn’t as fun as it sounds. My only other option would be to cave my own head in with a spade in a vain attempt to get some crapping sleep already…