The summer solstice has arrived with all the subtlety of a brick through a cathedral window. As France, Italy, and Spain cling to life under red alerts of 40 degrees Celsius, the British government has activated its 'Heatwave Response Plan'. This is, of course, a euphemism for 'buying all the portable fans from Argos and praying the trains don't melt'.
Let us pause to appreciate the sheer audacity of the continent's predicament. In Paris, the Eiffel Tower has started to resemble a giant effigy of a flaccid croissant. In Rome, the Colosseum is now a perfectly proportioned pizza oven, and the Trevi Fountain has become a tepid puddle of tourist sweat. Spain, meanwhile, has become a single, vast paella pan, with British tourists being the prawns.
And what of Blighty? Our response, as ever, is a masterpiece of understated panic and bureaucratic faff. The 'Heatwave Response Plan' is a document you could comfortably use as a doorstop, full of phrases like 'hydration points', 'cool rooms', and 'public health advice'. It is the NHS equivalent of putting a damp flannel on a nuclear reactor.
The plan's centrepiece is the amber alert, which the Met Office issues like a middle-class parent telling you the Wi-Fi is down. 'There is a possibility of disruption,' they murmur, as your brain liquefies and seeps out your ears. 'Please stay hydrated and avoid the midday sun. Also, have you considered investing in a garden parasol?'
This is the same country that collapses into chaos when a single snowflake drifts onto a train track. We cannot handle weather that requires more than one layer of clothing. Our infrastructure is built on the assumption of perpetual drizzle. The moment the mercury breaches 25 degrees, we start peeling off our three-piece suits and arguing about whether it's acceptable to wear shorts in Tesco.
The real tragedy, however, is the quality of gin consumption. In a heatwave, one must switch to G&T with extra ice, but British cocktail culture is still recovering from the 1980s. We are a nation that considers a 'cocktail' to be a pint of lager with a dash of blackcurrant cordial. Our ice cubes are the size of gravel, and our tonic water is flat from three years on the shelf.
Meanwhile, in the Mediterranean, entire economies are collapsing into gelato stands. The French are retreating to their air-conditioned tabacs, the Italians are inventing new hand gestures to describe the temperature, and the Spanish are simply lying down in the shade and accepting fate.
But fear not, for the British government has a plan. Step one: issue a press release. Step two: appoint a 'Heatwave Czar' who will give interviews from a deckchair in a M&S suit. Step three: blame the previous government, regardless of party. Step four: wait for autumn.
This is a nation that once used the Thames Barrier to stop a flooding event, but cannot keep its tube lines from turning into subterranean saunas. Our rail system, already a delicate arrangement of rust and hope, responds to heat by slowing down to the speed of a Victorian funeral procession. 'Leaves on the line' becomes 'rails that have turned to liquorice'.
And yet, we endure. We queue for ice cream vans with the same stoicism we show for buses that never arrive. We fan ourselves with copies of the Daily Mail. We tell each other, 'At least it's not raining,' as if that is the gold standard of meteorological achievement.
So here we are, gentlemen. The continent burns. Britain mildly toasts. The government's response is a pamphlet printed on heat-sensitive paper. And I need another drink. Preferably one with ice the size of a small glacier. Is that too much to ask? Of course it is. This is Britain. We do not have glaciers. We have damp patches on the lawn.
Stay cool. Stay calm. And for God's sake, do not let the sausage rolls sit out in the sun for more than an hour. This is not the time for risk-taking.
Biff Thistlethwaite out.
