A recent study carried out by the department of statistics in conjunction with the Met Office has revealed, in a shocking twist that absolutely nobody could possibly have been expecting, that British weather just so happens to be the absolute worst. It’s an acutely detailed report beyond all reproach and definitely isn’t simply drawn from anecdotal evidence. All these years and generations and endlessly rambling conversations, it actually turns out that we’ve been completely justified in going on about it the whole entire time. How deliciously vindicating.
Exotic countries in far flung climes all the way around the world can hang onto their typhoons, their monsoons, even their sudden and unexpected gusts of hot air whipped up by their overly noticeable buffoons. There may very well be hurricanes or tidal waves wreaking havoc on distant shores but what are they to us? We, a proud people most unfortunately beset by swirling mists and clinging fogs, by heaving and relentless rains and the occasional stifling day of mugginess which has the awful effect of making one feel all horribly hot and bothered under the collar even though it appears to be so pleasant and reasonable out of doors.
We are a nation of violent storms where winds batter at hopelessly vulnerable window panes. Where torrents of water lashes down from the skies and torrents right down the high street. It won’t be too long now before we see the return of the frozen pavement and the clumsily snow shovelled pathway and we discover the uncommonly convenient national shortage of rock salt. The day is coming, or may well have already arrived depending on your disposition and tolerance towards inclement weather, when standing outside with even a bare square inch of flesh is beyond your powers of endurance due to biting winds. Batten down the hatches folks, it doesn’t get much worse than this I think you’ll find.