Tag Archives: weather

Dragging Granny down the slip-road

Classic TV news footage: a line of white people in hi-vis gilets sitting in a line across a motorway. An angry bloke waving his arms strides forth from the gridlock and starts dragging some old dear along her arse. Glorious, nay Great Britain.

Today a bunch of people from something called Insulate Britain disrupted traffic for a while in the name of combating climate change. These are the same strand of protester as that Extinction Rebellion rabble and here they come again, messing up normal people’s lives, nobody supports it, the whole thing defeats the object, just go and get a job you workshy scum, and so on.

I’ve not asked a protester but I don’t think their ideal day involves sitting on a motorway. Like you, they’ve got better places to be. Maybe, therefore, let’s take the time to work out what they’re trying to achieve, and for whose benefit.

Everyone’s benefit. Absolutely everyone’s benefit.

Continue reading Dragging Granny down the slip-road

Monsoon season

Poor old Australia. Currently on fire due to what their hilariously holidaying Prime Minister probably blames on a Swedish schoolgirl, it’s hot as Hades and people can’t see each other for smoke. A couple more weeks of this and they’ll have to use their famed ‘points-based system’ to decide who gets to hop about in the last flip-flop not yet ablaze.

The average Aussie would give their right leg shackle for a downpour. Meanwhile on this side of the planet it’s winter and therefore rainy season, since snow was banned under whatever arrangement Boris Johnson has made with Satan. At this most wonderful time of the year, people look fearfully to the skies as though the AFD have found a few leftover V-2s.

I personally love unhappy weather. A grey day makes my heart sing as though the darkness at my core has been allowed out on day release. Rain is Mother Earth crying at the constant beatings she takes from her children, and we deserve every tear. So needless to say I fucking hate umbrellas.

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Stay frosty

War is hell. Women and children are under terrible threat and nobody’s doing a damn thing about it. Politicians seem powerless to stop it and outrage is everywhere.

Even those far from the front lines have their routines badly disrupted. But this is no ordinary conflict. This enemy is different – insidious, targeting the weakest in society, culling the sick and the old like a less cuddly Shipman. It’s an unwinnable war against a truly evil adversary.

Yeah, it’s a bit nippy out.

Continue reading Stay frosty

Half a chicken in a Harvester microwave

With the dead-eyed automation of a cat trying to cover its tracks after defecating in a flower bed, looking into the middle distance and not understanding what evolutionary processes have led to this moment, they intone, as one, “The beach!”

I am on a ‘beach holiday’, and the people I’m with, some of my closest friends, are turning into monsters before my eyes. When the question of what we’re doing today is asked there can be only one answer, and it’s a dreadful one. “The beach! The beach!” they chant, gradually hunching over and becoming Quasimodo with his “The bells! The bells!”

I have a well-developed aversion to beach holidays, assembled over many years of sand in shoes and various bodily fissures, puckering red skin and terror that the upper half of Quint’s body will emerge from the deep at any moment. The beach symbolises everything that’s wrong with the way people choose a holiday; principally, that in order to be happy and relaxed at the end of a break abroad you have to spend that entire trip roasting like half a chicken in a Harvester microwave.

For reasons I cannot explain, I am hot all the fucking time. Hot to the touch, high body temperature, ‘high metabolism’; call it what you will I’m burning on the inside, so the idea I’d want to burn on the outside too is bewildering. I explain this to people after they call me a miserable scrote for turning down a fun day of lying on a sunbed. I point out that you never hear me moan when it’s cold or when people run for their lives as the first drop of rain stabs at them like acid. But am I spared the pitying looks and whispers behind the back about my reluctance to join in what everyone must surely love? Don’t be ridiculous.

Without coming over all white supremacist I am perfectly happy with my skin staying the colour it is. It changes gradually as I age, turning from a light shade of pink into the dirty cream colour of the foam at the top of a pint of Guinness. I certainly don’t need it to be that odd mix of red, grey and brown people turn when they’ve lathered themselves up with Factor 10 and prostrated themselves on a plastic grill for eight hours straight.

There are people here who have moaned that their lunch order in the beach-side (covered) bar is taking too long because they’re wasting time they could spend sunbathing. Christ help us; if you want to burn that badly just specify cremation on your will, fill your pockets with pebbles and piss off out into the sea.

Sunbathing is officially the only activity more boring than the gym, but at least it’s preferable to trying to get to the bloody loungers on the most hateful substance known to man: sand. I was one of those kids who would as good as beg an increasingly implausible God for snow every day of the winter, and was simply overjoyed to slip and slide around an icy playground before ice and fun were privatised by the witch Thatcher. Sand is like anti-snow, shifty and hatefully scorching, and must be stopped.

Admittedly the sea itself is generally fine. I like swimming, and the sea makes a change from pools packed with children who get in with bladders full of urine and get out with faces full of shame. But this sea I’m looking at right now, from the happy vantage point of a hotel room balcony, is filled with peeling British tourists in costumes so tight you’ll find yourself emerging horrified from a brief trip beneath the surface, hoping that what just went in your ear was some brat’s inflatable banana rather than the gigantic appendance his father seems intent on squeezing into a pouch the size of those two-inch bags you find in Christmas crackers containing tiny screwdrivers.

I’m here, in southern Cyprus, for the wedding of two people I’ve known and loved for many years. Once I’d won the initial “Should we really invite that miserable twat?” debate there’s very little that would have stopped be being here, despite how much I hate weddings, because these people mean a hell of a lot to me.

And I’m not complaining that this has resulted in a beach holiday, as most of the group seem to be enjoying it despite the staggering heat. I do however thoroughly object to the mindset epitomised by the man who sees me every morning and riffs hilarious on a theme of “Going to smile today then?” I might if you find a way to turn the fucking sun down mate, though that might wreck your chances of going back looking like a Cypriot. How about we pop up to Reykjavik for a quick break around January time and see who’s smiling then?

Hard as it may be to understand as you crouch like a cornered animal and growl “the beach” at passers by, I am not staying away from the glorious conjunction of water and dirt because I’m a miserable bastard trying to put an unhappy edge on your wonderful week in the sun. It is just too fucking hot for me. Please leave me to sit in the bar and drink myself to oblivion. Join me when you like and I’ll act the usual pub simpleton you seem to accept when we’re not in situations requiring me to sweat like a fat man in a cake shop. Please, in the evening when things have cooled slightly, try not to waste my time and yours by banging on about how I’m a grumpy fucker who’s somehow not putting the effort in and why did you come anyway if you don’t like “The beach? The beach?”

I am a pasty white man, I get hot incredibly easily, and the beach is my enemy. Drop us all in the deep freeze of a Norwegian winter and see who’s the bloody life and soul of the party then.

Salads and Salmonella

I cannot have been the only one who recoiled with horror when the blandly spoken Home Counties MILF presenting the weather promised that this was to be the hottest week of the year. The multitude of clowns who will doubtless be rejoicing at this grim news simply serve to back up my long-held view that the Russians should have nuked us into oblivion when they had the chance. The thing that makes us superior from the rest of the animals is that one day our chimp ancestors woke up in their trees, felt the baking hot sun beating down oppressively upon their hairy backs and said; “Fuck this, I’m building myself a house.”

The sun guilt trips us into being outside. The sun taunts us from our office windows forcing us to turn the air conditioning up to full – that same air conditioning that hoovers up our germs and diseases and distributes sickness throughout the entire workplace. The heat wipes out our elderly like a naturally occurring Harold Shipman and causes the roadkill to swell and bloat until it explodes into our nostrils, the putrefied stench of death ever present on a hot summer’s day in the infernal countryside.

Meanwhile the long days expose us, forcing us from our beds. A pleasant Sunday lie in is interrupted by the beating rays and searing heat and we wake up drenched in a sweat so severe as to make us assume we’ve both pissed ourselves and had other people piss over us as we slept. A gloriously late night of playing video games or engaging in a Netflix marathon is destroyed when the sun appears, seemingly at random, at three in the fucking morning, silently judging you like the prudish landlord of a quiet country pub as you order your sixth pint of the day at half past twelve on a Tuesday afternoon.

In winter the darkness values your privacy. The cold welcomes the strong, braces you, makes you feel alive, involves you. The heat is yours to control at the flick of a radiator switch. The shortest journey becomes a wondrous adventure full of peril, like a Victorian boy’s own novel only hopefully without the unashamed racism. Whilst summer is a time of salads and Salmonella from under-cooked barbecues, winter is a time of thick broths and hearty roasts. Whilst summer brings us naked hippies invading our national monuments to celebrate the fallacy of midsummer with pot and LSD, winter brings us Christmas, beer, mulled wine and singing in the streets.

Enjoy your long hot summer days if you like. Enjoy stepping on used syringes on the beaches and ingesting raw sewage into every one of your orifices as you swim obliviously in the world’s largest toilet. I’ll be drawing the blackout curtains tightly across my windows and looking forward to those glorious, vengeful days when Mother Nature strips the trees naked and enfolds the earth within the shroud of endless night.