Western Europe has finally achieved what generations of immigrants, European Parliament directives, and the entire Spanish tourism board could not: it has turned Britain into a bloody sauna. The Met Office, that bastion of jolly understatement, has issued a 'prolonged heat event' warning. Which, translated from Civil Servant, means 'We're all going to melt into a puddle of regret and warm lager.'
Temperatures have shattered records like a wine glass at a Tory fundraiser. In London, the mercury hit 40.3°C. That's not just hot. That's 'the Devil's ball sack' hot. That's 'repent now, for the sun doth smite us' hot. It's the sort of heat that makes you consider peeling off your own skin just to catch a breeze.
The government, ever the bastion of action, has declared a national emergency. Which, in practice, means they've put out a tweet with a lot of exclamation marks and advised everyone to 'stay hydrated.' Hydrated. With what, pray tell? The last pint of London Pride before it turns into vinegar steam? The collective sweat of a thousand Tube commuters?
Meanwhile, the railways have, predictably, given up. 'Leaves on the line' is a quaint, autumnal excuse. Now it's 'tracks have melted into a Salvador Dali painting.' Flights are grounded because the air is too thin for reasonable take-off, or because the pilots have all fled to Iceland. Probably both.
The NHS, dealing with heatstroke cases and a sudden epidemic of people 'popping out for a quick lie down' in A&E, has reminded us that the heat is dangerous for the elderly, the young, and anyone who foolishly believed that Britain needed 'more sunshine.' Well, here you are. All the sunshine you never wanted. And you can't even have a proper barbie because the sausages have spontaneously combusted.
Let's be honest: this is fine. This is the future. We've spent years banging on about climate change while simultaneously flying to Benidorm for a weekend of warm beer and sunburn. Now the sun has come to us, and it's brought a hangover the size of Somerset. The ice caps are melting. The trains are dead. And somewhere, a penguin is shaking its head.
Boris Johnson, or whoever is currently running the country from a deckchair in the Cotswolds, has issued a statement: 'This is an unprecedented weather event. We are doing everything we can.' Which, presumably, involves sweating profusely and hoping it all goes away. It won't. The sun doesn't give a toss about your political career.
So slap on the factor 50. Buy a fan. Accept that your makeup has melted and your chinos are now a swamp. This is the new normal. As I sit here, typing with sweat-drenched fingers, I can't help but think: at least the gin is still cold. For now.
