When people discover I relocated last year from the South of France to England, they all say the same thing: WHY?!

I tell them I came back because of the weather.

Really?!  they gasp. You came back for the weather?!

Yes, I reply. I’m a masochist.

Once again it’s Wimbledon fortnight, the time of year when tradition dictates the tennis-loving British public don their inflatable life rafts, pull on their wellies, and settle down under thick tarpaulins to watch grown men and women slam balls to each other at speeds upwards of 113 mph whilst GRUNTING VERY LOUDLY EVERY TIME THEY TAKE A SHOT AS IF THEY ARE HAVING ORGASMS.

SPLISH!    40 / 30!

SPLASH!  Splice the topspin!

SPLOSH!  New balls please!  (Always advisable to practise safe tennis).

But we plucky Brits don’t let a little bit of weather stand in the way of our enjoyment, for God’s sake!  We’re never better than when enjoying a round of soggy sandwiches and a glass of warm beer. We’re only sorry that the Nat West bank has abruptly cancelled all its corporate hospitality at the tournament this time around, penance for being found out in their endeavours to steal the whole fucking country from under our feet and sell it to the Saudis and George Soros. (Who, let’s face it, are the only people who can afford the punnets of tiny strawberries floating around in rain soup anyway).

I know my foreign readers will be a little mystified about the (many) eccentricities of this noble waterlogged land (to be honest, you’re not alone), so let me give you the run down on what it means to live on a tiny island in (and I mean that ‘in’ literally) the North Sea.


* Rain is not merely rain. It’s more important than that.  Just as the Inuit at the North Pole are reputed to have 47 different words for snow, the Brits have 5,863 swearwords for rain.

* Common or Garden Rain falls on gardens and commoners.  The latter includes everyone in the country, other than the 27,934 people who are the most important members of the Royal Family and who are paid for out of the Civil List. (POINT OF INTEREST: Garden Party Rain falls on commoners when they are invited to Garden Parties at Buckingham Palace. It does not fall on the the Queen – who is not a commoner, she’s the Queen, duh – because she shelters under one of her horrible little corgis.  So now you know the point of those vicious little dogs).

* Wimblerain and Bank Holirain differ from each other only in the fact they’re both completely predictable.  Which, predictably, means no point of differentation whatsoever.

* Showers are completely predictable in their total unpredictability.  Which is either predictable or unpredictable, depending on whether you’ve gone out with an umbrella or not. Or not.

* Drizzle is what it does when it’s not raining.

I hope this explains the mystical quality of the British Summer.  (Which is called mystical only because the ‘Summer’ part of the British Summer is myssing.)

Don’t feel sorry for us, we grew up in the place, it’s part of what makes us British.

(When’s the next flight out of here???)

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