The continent is currently performing an unintentional impression of a rotisserie chicken, and at the centre of this culinary catastrophe is France, which has slapped a 'red alert' on half its landmass. The sort of weather where baguettes are left to crisp in the sun and berets are not so much worn as drenched. The Met Office, with the solemnity of a priest delivering last rites, has informed us that this airborne atrocity is scheduled to make a cameo in Blighty next week.
A heatwave, they call it. I call it a meteorological mugging, one that strips you of your dignity, your patience, and your last remaining ice cube. France's red alert is the weather equivalent of a grown man screaming into a void, a void that is currently hot enough to fry an egg on a bidet.
Meanwhile, the UK looks on, sweating through its collar, knowing its turn will come. A spillover, they promise. A spillover of what exactly?
The 99p price of an ice lolly? The collective sweat of a nation that takes its sunburn with a side of existential dread? The Met Office forecasts a surge in hosepipe bans, arguments over single glazing, and the sudden popularity of paper fans.
The French, bless them, are calling it a 'canicule'. I call it a can-no-sleep-e. It's a reminder that the universe has a sick sense of humour, giving us a greenhouse effect for an encore.
So stock up on gin, settle in by the fan that sounds like a dying goose, and prepare for the spillover. It'll be brie-lliant, I'm sure.