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.