There is a certain type of weather that makes a German lose his composure, and it is not a broken autobahn or a shortage of sausage. It is a heatwave so spectacularly aggressive that even the most stoic Bavarian is now weeping into his lukewarm wheat beer. Records have shattered across the Fatherland like a dropped stein, with temperatures so high that even the clocks are sweating. Events have been cancelled, which is a mercy, because no one wants to watch a Schuhplattler dance when the dancers are melting into a puddle of lederhosen and regret.
This, reader, is the new normal. The continent has become a convection oven, a geological tantrum of climate change. The UK now braces for impact, which is a very dramatic way of saying we might need to loosen our ties and buy a fan. The Met Office has issued warnings that sound like the opening lines of a disaster film: 'Tropical nights ahead.' In Britain, a tropical night is when you cannot sleep because you are worrying about your roses. But now, it appears, we cannot sleep because we are actually being cooked.
I confess I have been following this story from the relative safety of a Soho bar, where the gin is both plentiful and cold. My informant, a man named Giles who has not perspired since 1984, tells me that the UK is preparing for the inevitable: a week of temperatures above 30 degrees, followed by national panic, followed by a brief article in the Daily Mail about how this proves climate change is a Chinese hoax. Then we will all go back to complaining about the rain.
But let us not mock the dead, or the dying. In Germany, the situation is dire. The heat has become so personal that it has started targeting specific festivals. The Cologne Pride parade was reduced to a shuffle. The Berlin Marathon was cancelled because the runners were achieving a slow burn rather than a fast finish. Even the great machine of German efficiency has ground to a halt, and I suspect the only thing moving in Munich right now is the sweat trickling down a dirndl.
The cause of all this is, of course, our own feckless profligacy. We have driven our planet to a fever pitch, and now we are surprised when it gets a bit hot. I propose a remedy: let every world leader be forced to sit in a glass box in the midday sun, without air conditioning, until they agree to meaningful climate action. It would be cruel, but war is cruel, and we are at war with ourselves.
In the meantime, I shall remain here, gin in hand, monitoring the situation. To my fellow Brits, I say this: hydrate with something stronger than water. To the Germans, I say: your suffering is our warning. And to the planet, I say: I am sorry we were such unreliable tenants. We promise to do better, or at least to complain less when the heat makes our custards turn.
