In a development that has sent thermometers into hysterics and British dermatologists into a state of advanced alarm, the Mediterranean has decided to turn itself into a giant paella dish. Red heat alerts are now fluttering across France, Italy, and Spain like the flags of some terrible new republic: the United Republic of Sunstroke. Temperatures are expected to hit 40 degrees Celsius, which, for the benefit of our readers who still think in Fahrenheit, is roughly the temperature of Satan’s armpit after a particularly vigorous round of hellfire badminton.
British tourists, those hardy souls who normally consider a bit of drizzle a minor inconvenience, are now facing a choice: either melt into a puddle of factor-50 SPF and regret, or seek refuge in the nearest air-conditioned bar serving lukewarm lager at prices that would make a City banker blanch. The Foreign Office, in its infinite wisdom, has issued a statement advising holidaymakers to ‘stay hydrated and avoid the midday sun’. This is roughly equivalent to telling a drowning man to ‘try breathing less water’. One can only imagine the scenes: hundreds of pale northern Europeans huddled under parasols, clutching bottles of overpriced water, their skin slowly turning the colour of a lobster that has just been told a very shocking piece of news.
The French, never ones to miss an opportunity for existential crisis, have declared the heatwave a ‘national inconvenience’ and are reportedly considering a ban on anything that requires movement. The Italians, meanwhile, are simply accepting it as divine punishment for the state of their railways. And the Spanish? They are probably just shrugging and pointing at the nearest beach, where the real drama is unfolding: the Great Pile-On of Bodies, where strangers become intimate friends through the sheer force of proximity on a towel the size of a postage stamp.
But let us not forget the true victims here: the expats. Those retired couples who moved to Spain to ‘escape the British weather’ are now sitting in their shuttered villas, fanning themselves with copies of the Costa Blanca News, wondering if a lifetime of paella and sangria was worth this. The answer, my friends, is no. No, it was not.
The irony is, of course, that these same tourists will return home and complain about the British summer, which is currently operating at a steady 18 degrees and overcast. They will moan about the rain, the cold, the lack of ‘proper heat’. But we know the truth. They will be back next year, lured by the promise of sangria and the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, the Med will have cooled down. It won’t. It will be hotter. And they will complain again. It is the circle of life, or at least the circle of package holidays.
So, to all you Brits currently sizzling on a sun lounger somewhere between Malaga and Marseille: take comfort in the knowledge that you are part of a grand tradition. A tradition of overpaying for mediocre food, getting sunburnt on the first day, and spending the rest of the holiday in a state of mild dehydration. It is your birthright. Enjoy it while it lasts. Because in a few decades, these temperatures will be the new normal, and you’ll be longing for the good old days when it was only 40 degrees, not 50. And then you’ll really have something to complain about.
