Hate Hate Heat

Here comes the sun, do-dum-do-do. And while I love the Beatles as much as the next idiot, I have to rise up and roar indignantly at the mere whisper of a mention of that song. Because, quite frankly, it is NOT all right. Bah-da-da-da-da...

I truly despise this country at the moment. Just as I seemed to do eight months ago. But let us put a merry smile on our faces and gaily dance past the fact that in the space of 19 blog posts I have run out of ideas, and then settle down for a nice thirst-quenching rant-o-rama. Love it.

You see, and I'm sure you will, it's not just the heat. It's not even that hot. True heat is something I know all too well, seeing as I spent the hottest day since records began, in 2003, sealed inside a small black box next to a cricket pitch in the blazing sunshine, which is an altogether strange yet uninteresting story. It's the horrible nagging guilt that comes when even the smallest trickle of sunlight filters through the smog of fag smoke and regret that permanently permeates my horror-hovel. Oh, screams the last remaining neuron of niceness in my brain, which by a meaningless coincidence is also sealed in a small black box, look! The sun is out! Maybe you should go and enjoy it! Permit yourself a small squeeeeee! But here's the thing - I really, really, really don't want to. Why in the world of hellfire would anyone want to go outside, with the evil Japanese hornets the size of my fist killing all the nice bumbly bees, and the hoards of lithe young beings salaciously flashing their ankles all the way to damnation? No, I want to stay in here where it's uncomfortably humid, and where I can't open the windows lest I be aurally assaulted by the satanic children next door mewling for attention (completely true sample soundbite from a few days ago: "Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! Carl! You're a liar!") But I can't be happy, because my deep-seated English genes are drying out for me to take advantage while the sun shines to, you know, make hay or whatever.

I live just off one of those new-fangled high street-type affairs, where there is a broad choice of overpriced gastropub nightmares. And every single one of them has suddenly sprouted a fine selection of Homebase's best garden furniture on their little bit of pavement. Which is perfectly sensible, because do you know what I find really sets off a £12 burger (oh, do excuse me, of course I mean £12 fillet steak melange in foccacia served with homemade Jersey Royal rhombic prisms)? The collective diesel belching of 400 double-deckers, the sweet symphony of Thames Water's best jackhammers, and the piqued interest of every wasp in West London. Gaa-, and I don't say this lightly, -aaah.

I shall leave you with completely irrelevant words from Peep Show, which I have only just discovered because I am four years behind everyone else in the world: "So this is it then. Me tripping off my tits, watching you do endless pooing?" Quite, Messers Bain and Armstrong. Quite.