Becky says things about … a plea for summer

Dear The Rest of the World

Hello. My name is Becky. I live in England.

Someone’s got to.

I am writing on behalf of my country. This is not a begging letter as such; it’s more of polite request from one nation to another at a time of crisis.

You see, we in England – you know, that poor sod of a country that looks like a toddler has been sick on the world – have just been informed by our Weather Lords (otherwise known as the Met Office) that we, to put it bluntly, can shove our summers up our flabby English arses.

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Apparently, due to the fact that the Atlantic is going through a ‘warm spell’, we are going to get rained on. For a decade. Possibly two. One of our wonderful newspapers – ironically called The Sun (oh, such vicious irony) – reports it here.

Now, clearly we are not thrilled by this news. We love summer. We haven’t had a proper one since 2006. There are 5, 6, 7 year-olds in this country who don’t know what summer is. In fact, if we were to suddenly have a summer, it may cause them psychological damage.

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To understand our plight, here are some useful statistics:

  • English families own an average of 49.6 umbrellas per household.
  • More English people die on the one sunny day of the year in the stampede for BBQ coals and sausages than in the rest of the 364 days of the year put together.
  • In England, yearly sales of an expensive perfume made from scrapings of goat’s bladder and guinea pig mucus are higher than sales of sun cream.
  • The average 6 year-old thinks a ‘bucket and spade’ is the name of a level on Mario Kart.
  • The average English person cannot watch an episode of Baywatch without crying. Not at David Hasselhoff’s beauty, but at the weather.

(Statistics provided by beckymakesupstatistics.com.)

But we are a nation of triers. We stoically stand around in mud at our music festivals (curative trench foot measures really have improved). We like to keep our gardens looking nice even though we can only spend three days a year sitting in them. We love a BBQ. Boy, we just love a BBQ.

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But you know what?

It’s rubbish.

We have lived in a damp, dark cave for too long. And it’s only going to get worse.

So please. This is a plea to the rest of the world to HELP US. For the love of God.

HELP US.

Australia: you have heaps of sun. I mean, do you really need it all? Don’t you get tired of it? Constantly feeling sweaty, always having to take cool-down showers? It must be really, really irritating. And you don’t even have enough people to appreciate it! 23 million people! In a country  31 times the size of England.

Come on. Does that sound fair? I’m sure all that dirt and rock is really making the best of your endlessly sunny days.

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And Greece. Your weather is lovely. I was on your sunny shores just recently, and I got more Vitamin D in 10 days than I’ve had in the last 10 years. Yeah, I know you’re a bit strapped for cash at the moment, and things aren’t great, so why not ship over some of your sun to us! Think what you’d save on the air conditioning!  The woolly jumper industry would go through the roof!

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Our chums in America. Or buddies, if you will. Hi there. You remember us. We’re like you’re cute little sister who keeps falling over and hurting her knee. You like us. Will you help us out? I know you’ve got loads of sun because I’ve been to lots of your states. It took me a mere 20 minutes to get sunstroke in Death Valley. Is that necessary? Can’t you turn the heat down a bit? Give us a few degrees? And what about Utah? I saw nothing but blue skies in Utah, and there is a lot of empty space in that state. Florida? Fed up with us pasty English folk descending on you every month of the year and eating all your doughnuts and talking loudly about how nice the weather is in the queues at Disneyworld? Well give us some sun to take home with us and we’ll stay in our country a bit more and won’t bother you. 

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I don’t know how you’re going to do it. I don’t know which airline offers the best rates on transporting sun. I don’t know whether you can take it as hand luggage or whether you’d have to check it in. I just don’t know. I’m just asking you to help us. Please. Send us some sun. Don’t keep it all to yourselves. Share and share alike.

And as I wrote that sentence, the sun came out. Whoever sent that over: THANK YOU.

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It’s gone back in again. STOP PLAYING MIND GAMES WITH US. WE ARE FRAGILE AND PRONE TO WEATHER-INDUCED HYSTERIA.

Thank you for listening

Kind regards

Becky (on behalf of England) xx

Becky says things about … the Great British summertime

Imagine if you can, dear reader, the following situations:

1) Your pal rings you up one morning and says ‘Hey there chum, do you fancy going to the seaside for the day? We can sunbathe on the beach, build sandcastles, lark around on the pier and eat ice cream until we feel dizzy.’ And you reply ‘That sounds brilliant! Let me just find my bucket and spade and it’s game on!’

2) Your pal rings you up one afternoon and says ‘Hey there chum, do you fancy going for a stroll along the river in our shorts and sandals? Perhaps we can stop for a strawberry split and an ice cold lemonade along the way.’ And you reply ‘That sounds super! Let me just slap on a bit of suncream and I’m there!’

3) Your pal rings you up one evening and says ‘Hey there chum, do you fancy coming over for a BBQ? I’ve got sausages, burgers, kebabs, AND haloumi, I’ve covered our laurel bushes with fairy lights and I’ve got smooth jazz on.’ And you reply ‘That sounds marvellous! I’ll just pick up some champagne and some strawberries and I’ll be right over.’

4) Basically any situation that involves your pal ringing you up and suggesting doing outdoor things.

You can’t imagine it, can you? I mean, you literally cannot imagine a situation where any of those things would ever happen.

I shall tell you why that is, dear friend. It is because

it has rained for the past one thousand years.

It is July 2nd. The summer holidays are almost upon us. We are hosting the world’s greatest sporting spectacle. Our country is providing the roads on which the greatest cycling athletes known to Man will attempt to display their incredible Olympic-standard skills.

We are supposed to be showing off our green and pleasant land, shouting to the world that Britain isn’t this sad, gloomy place where everyone is miserable, pale and slightly unwell-looking, and where no one has even heard of Vitamin D.

Instead, we shall confirm to the world that all of the above are true, we will give hypothermia to important state members of foreign countries, we will kill off most of the world’s tourist population by providing healthy doses of trench foot as they stand watching the 100 meter sprint in three feet of mud, and still it will continue to rain.

Reader, I remember summers that were sunny. I remember frolicking on sunny Cornish beaches, I remember hot afternoons eating chicken drumsticks in National Trust gardens, I remember long, warm evenings where the air was filled with the smell of roasting meat, where lights twinkled in the blue dusk and I ate Kettle Chips until it was no longer safe to do so. I remember this. Was it all a dream? Have I gone mad? Have I been imagining a place that doesn’t exist?

We can only sit and wait. Wait until this disgusting, miserable, foul, revolting, repulsive, horrendous, shitty weather has a word with itself, the sun remembers it’s supposed to be working and gets off its lazy arse, and we all get that obligatory British strip of sunburn over one shoulder.