Whilst I can accept that the sun is key to all life bar the weird shit swirling round in the darkest depths of the ocean, there’s simply no excuse for what it’s currently doing. England is experiencing a mini heatwave of sorts, prompting people to prophesise once again that these are our few brief days of summer. They say this despite the fact that it is April and therefore spring, and that year on year summers are getting increasingly hotter.
Still, the British population complains we don’t get enough sun and that it’s always raining. I for one think that the last few days have been unbearable. Not only do I find anything over 8 degrees (Celsius, the best of all the degrees) maddeningly uncomfortable, heat also causes a river of sweat to sweep into the narrow valley of my arse crack causing me to constantly wonder whether I have shat myself.
The intense solar rays also inflict the British public with a form of madness, turning them all into dicks or, at the very least, they bring their innate dickishness to the surface. Men are the first to succumb to this because on the whole, they’re more dickish. The first symptom manifests itself in the mistaken belief that they no longer have to be dressed when they’re outside. Shirts become a temporarily forgotten thing and swollen egos strut around displaying their thoroughly underwhelming bodies in an animalistic display. Skinny and chubby men tense with all their might to look appealing, giving themselves hernias in the process. Those with sculpted six-packs stride through fields with sickly, self- satisfied smiles that make everyone want to hit them with chairs.
There’s never an excuse not to be fully clothed. No one takes their trousers off screaming that it’s too hot. If it’s not acceptable on the bottom half, then it’s not acceptable on the top.
Then the coffee shops become clogged with bodies. Queues stretch out the doors and move at a snail’s pace. This is not because people feel inclined to have a nice espresso as they sit in the afternoon sun like someone might in Italy. Not that I’ve ever been to Italy, just sounds like the sort of thing they’d get up to before riding off on a moped and doing… doing something overtly Italian. Those crazy Italians and their ways. No. Instead, as it’s hot, people think going to a coffee shop for a cold drink is a good idea. A drink with numerous ingredients that requires blending in some weird industrial blender, with a frankly indecipherable name.
If people are not guzzling on children’s fruity milk drinks (made adult by the addition of ‘cino’), they’re sucking on beer or cider bottles or sipping fizzy wine, depending on how the class war’s going at the time. It’s hot, therefore drinking in public is acceptable. If it’s raining, a lone figure sat on a bench and hunched over a can of cheap Polish lager is a sign of poor life choices or serious economic and social woe. If it’s sunny, the world and their nan are getting pissed in public and leaving a trail of discarded bottles and cans in their wake. Like slugs. Except their slime isn’t biodegradable.
Then come the inevitable invitations to barbeques. Either at someone’s house or gathered around a foil, disposable thing like prehistoric man, charring cheap strips of meat until it resembles something vaguely edible. Or, in people’s gardens, as they roast marinated meat and vegetable kebabs on huge, expensive beasts as everyone gets drunk and the neighbours’ children die of smoke inhalation. ‘Nothing beats a barbeque’ people say. ‘It’s just cooking outside’ I say. ‘Who invited you?’ they say before I retreat back inside and stew in my own sweat, desperately opening every window in an attempt to get the air to move.
But alas it remains still. My efforts just aid the insect invasion. Flies and wasps of all sizes seem to find their way in with ease and yet haven’t evolved to the point they can consider leaving the same way. They circle the place buzzing nosily or biting and drinking my blood. Bees occasionally make themselves known, but I have a soft spot for the fuzzy, dying things and at least if they sting me they’re doing more damage to themselves.
Sleep becomes a distant memory. The naivety and innocence of those pleasant winter months, where your bed welcomes you with open arms and hugs you with warm and comforting duvet arms, fades and is replaced with hardship and woe. You toss and turn in a desperate bid to feel some degree of comfort before you have to rise from a fitful sleep and spend another day under the assault of the blaring sun.
Bring back the rain. The rain is the giver of life. The rain washes away the oppression of the hydrogen beast in the sky. The rain brings relief. The rain is forgiving. The rain is loving.
I long to hear the words ‘that’s the end of the British summer.’ And the damn thing hasn’t even started yet.