Why we hate British summertime
So, that’s it, then?
A week of blistering sunshine and our RayBans and Ambre Solaire is locked safely away in a dark, dank cupboard for another year.
British summertime stinks, doesn’t it?
There’s a whole raft of references to articles on Seasonal Affective Disorder if you peruse Google for any decent length of time but they all talk about how, when Winter closes in, those SAD sufferers retreat to the front room, wrap a cardigan around their huddled shoulders and melt into the furniture until Spring rears its head the following late June.
But there’s nothing referring to the condition suffered by us Brits for whom the annual hope-fest that is the first unbroken week of sunshine and clear blue skies quickly turns into a huge broken promise every year.
It’s the weather equivalent of a WonderBra, the UK summer isn’t it? Promises loads of fun and good times with a taste of what may be to come and then never fails to disappoint when it disrobes to reveal another year of rain-sodden grey skies and windy weekends.
Urgh. We really do hate the British summer. And don’t we just have every right to feel totally let down?
If British summer were a lover it would be selfish, boastful and full of bright ideas for how to spice up our special time together. And then it’d be all over in a matter of minutes, leaving us with nought but a sweaty back and the brief memory of wasted potential.
If British summertime were a TV star it’d be Simon Cowell. A massive beaming smile and a promise of a glittering future. But when the façade is pulled away it would reveal a bloated 50-something who’s plans for your future music career are about as revolutionary as a cover version of a PJ & Duncan ‘rap’.
British summertime is a soggy letdown. Like winning a ticket to the most talked about party in town, only to arrive in your gladrags and discover it’s a Morris Dancing Convention. And there’s no free bar.
At least you know what you’re getting with the unapologetic sleazebag that is British winter.
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