There is a very specific sequence of events that occurs whenever Britain experiences a heatwave.
It always begins innocently.
The temperature reaches 21°C.
Someone opens the patio doors.
A neighbour gets the lawnmower out.
A man appears in Tesco wearing shorts for the first time since 2009.
And somewhere, usually before 9am, somebody looks towards the sky and says the four words that will ultimately doom us all:
“Lovely weather, isn’t it?”
It is.
For approximately 36 hours.
Then Britain begins to cook.
DAY ONE: THIS IS NICE
Temperature: 22°C
Britain is delighted.
People eat lunch outside.
Office workers abandon their desks and sit on patches of grass beside dual carriageways.
Pub gardens suddenly contain the entire population.
Someone buys a paddling pool.
Weather presenters beam enthusiastically.
“Temperatures could reach 24 degrees tomorrow!”
Fantastic.
This is exactly what we’ve been waiting for.
After nine months of rain, drizzle, sideways rain, freezing rain, mist, fog and something the Met Office describes as persistent moisture, summer has finally arrived.
Everyone immediately announces:
“You can’t beat Britain when the weather’s like this.”
This sentence has a maximum validity period of 48 hours.
DAY TWO: GET THE BARBECUE OUT
Temperature: 25°C
Britain has entered Mediterranean mode.
Supermarkets are stripped of burgers.
Disposable barbecues appear everywhere.
Every garden smells simultaneously of charcoal, lighter fluid and chicken that is somehow burnt outside yet clinically raw in the middle.
Men who haven’t cooked anything since Christmas suddenly become barbecue specialists.
“No, no, you’ve got to let the coals settle.”
Thanks, Gordon Ramsay.
You’ve cremated eight sausages and dropped a chicken wing into the begonias.
Meanwhile, somebody produces a bottle of rosé.
The neighbours put music on.
Children run through sprinklers.
Life is magnificent.
Britain has finally cracked summer.
DAY THREE: ACTUALLY, IT’S QUITE WARM
Temperature: 27°C
The first cracks appear.
People stop saying:
“Lovely weather.”
They start saying:
“Bit warm.”
This is significant.
“Bit warm” is British for:
I am beginning to suffer physically but don’t want to appear ungrateful.
The bedroom is now uncomfortable.
You’ve opened every window.
Unfortunately this has achieved absolutely nothing except allowing three flies, a moth and the neighbour’s barbecue smoke into the house.
You consider buying a fan.
Amazon:
Delivery in six weeks.
Argos:
Out of stock.
Currys:
HAHAHAHAHAHA.
Every fan in Britain disappeared approximately seven minutes after the BBC mentioned the word heatwave.
DAY FOUR: THE FAN HAS BECOME A FAMILY MEMBER
Temperature: 29°C
You find an old desk fan in the loft.
It is yellow.
It was manufactured when Tony Blair was Prime Minister.
You switch it on.
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
It moves approximately three molecules of air per hour.
Doesn’t matter.
You love it.
You place it beside the bed and stare lovingly into its rotating plastic face.
Your relationship becomes serious.
You begin positioning furniture around it.
Nobody is allowed to block the fan.
“MOVE! YOU’RE BLOCKING IT!”
The fan is now the most important object in the house.
If there were a fire, you’d rescue the children second.
DAY FIVE: WHY ARE BRITISH HOUSES LIKE THIS?
Temperature outside: 30°C
Temperature inside your bedroom:
THE SURFACE OF MERCURY
This is when Britain remembers that our houses were designed specifically to retain heat.
Which is excellent in January.
Less useful when your upstairs landing has become a commercial pizza oven.
You open every window.
No breeze.
You close the curtains.
No difference.
You put a wet towel somewhere because someone on Facebook said it helps.
It doesn’t.
You freeze bottles of water.
You place pillowcases in the freezer.
You start sleeping with one leg outside the duvet.
Eventually you remove the duvet entirely.
This feels wrong.
British people need something covering them while sleeping.
It could be 47°C and we’d still require a thin sheet for emotional security.
Otherwise the monsters can get you.
DAY SIX: SLEEP HAS BEEN CANCELLED
Temperature: 31°C
It’s 11:30pm.
You’re lying in bed.
Motionless.
Sweating.
The fan is making a noise like a Lancaster bomber.
The window is open.
Somewhere outside, two people are having the loudest conversation ever conducted.
A motorbike passes.
A fox screams.
Someone’s dog begins barking.
Then a mosquito enters.
You finally drift off at 2:14am.
At 2:16am you wake up because your pillow is now approximately 80% human moisture.
Turn pillow over.
Lovely.
Cool side.
The greatest sensation known to mankind.
Seven minutes later:
Warm.
Turn again.
Warm.
There is no cool side any more.
The pillow has fallen.
DAY SEVEN: WORK HAS BECOME IMPOSSIBLE
Temperature: 32°C
Nobody is working.
Technically, everyone is at work.
But actual productivity has collapsed.
Emails become shorter.
Meetings become pointless.
People stare at computer screens without absorbing information.
Someone says:
“It’s too hot to think.”
Nobody disagrees.
The office air conditioning, which worked perfectly throughout February, chooses today to break.
Facilities sends an email:
“We are aware of an issue with the air-conditioning system.”
Yes.
We know.
Gary from Accounts has removed his shoes and Janet is fanning herself with an invoice.
DAY EIGHT: THE NEWS BECOMES TERRIFYING
Temperature: 33°C
Remember when this was “lovely weather”?
Those days are gone.
Television graphics have changed.
The friendly yellow sunshine symbol has disappeared.
Everything is now:
RED.
EXTREME HEAT WARNING
Maps of Britain look like we’re under attack.
Weather presenters who were smiling four days ago now stand solemnly beside graphics resembling the gates of Hell.
“Temperatures could become dangerous.”
Oh.
You told us on Monday to enjoy the sunshine.
Now you’re telling Grandma not to leave the house.
THE NEWSPAPERS DECLARE WAR ON THE SUN
British newspapers have two settings for summer.
Setting One:
PHEW WHAT A SCORCHER!
Photo of people on Bournemouth beach.
Setting Two:
DEADLY HEAT BLAST TO BAKE BRITAIN
There is no middle ground.
At 24°C:
“BRITAIN HOTTER THAN IBIZA!”
At 31°C:
“KILLER SAHARA FURNACE TO MELT UK!”
By 34°C the Sun itself is portrayed as a hostile foreign power deliberately targeting pensioners.
EVERYONE SUDDENLY BECOMES A METEOROLOGIST
During a heatwave, every British person becomes an expert in atmospheric science.
“This isn’t normal heat.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s humid heat.”
Right.
“My phone says 29 but it feels more like 36.”
Okay.
“Apparently Spain’s cooler than us.”
Is it?
“My cousin’s in Tenerife and she says it’s lovely there.”
Excellent intelligence gathering.
Someone inevitably announces:
“It’s hotter than the Sahara.”
It almost certainly isn’t.
But nobody checks.
THEN COMES THE GREAT WINDOW DEBATE
This divides households.
One person believes every window should be open.
The other believes every window should be closed.
OPEN WINDOW PERSON:
“We need airflow.”
CLOSED WINDOW PERSON:
“You’re letting hot air in.”
OPEN:
“But there’s a breeze.”
CLOSED:
“THAT’S HOT AIR.”
OPEN:
“IT’S STILL AIR.”
Within minutes a 15-year marriage is hanging by a thread because of convection.
THE CAR HAS BECOME AN OVEN
You approach your car.
Open the door.
WHOOOOOOOF.
A blast of air emerges at approximately 900°C.
You sit down.
The seatbelt buckle brands the car brand logo permanently into your thigh.
The steering wheel cannot be touched.
You start the engine.
Air conditioning:
warm air
Thanks.
You drive for six minutes holding the steering wheel using only your fingertips like you’re transporting radioactive material.
Then, just as the air conditioning finally becomes cold…
You’ve arrived.
ICE CREAM BECOMES A LOGISTICAL CHALLENGE
You buy an ice cream.
You have approximately 14 seconds to eat it.
There is no leisurely enjoyment.
This is now competitive eating.
The second it leaves the freezer:
MELT SEQUENCE INITIATED
You lick furiously.
It’s running down your hand.
Onto your wrist.
Down your arm.
The chocolate coating falls off.
A wasp arrives.
Another wasp arrives.
You’ve spent £4.80 to become sticky and frightened.
WASPS HAVE BEEN ACTIVATED
Nobody knows where wasps go for the rest of the year.
But the moment temperatures exceed 25°C:
RELEASE THE WASPS.
They’re everywhere.
Pub gardens.
Picnics.
Bins.
Beer glasses.
Ice creams.
They don’t even seem particularly interested in eating anything.
They just want you to know they’re there.
A family enjoying lunch outside becomes a military operation.
“DON’T SWAT IT.”
“I’M NOT.”
“STOP MOVING.”
“IT’S ON MY FACE.”
“JUST STAY CALM.”
Nobody has ever stayed calm while a wasp examines their nostril.
THE PADDLING POOL HAS BECOME SOUP
Remember that lovely paddling pool from Day Two?
It’s now green.
There are leaves in it.
Three insects have drowned.
The water temperature is 31°C.
Nobody wants to get in.
The dog drank some of it yesterday and has been behaving strangely ever since.
You consider emptying it.
But that requires effort.
And it’s too hot for effort.
So it remains in the garden until October.
NATIONAL INFRASTRUCTURE BEGINS TO MELT
Britain was built to operate within an extremely specific temperature range:
8°C–17°C
Anything outside this range and things start going wrong.
Trains slow down.
Road surfaces soften.
Schools close.
Servers overheat.
Water pressure drops.
Air conditioning fails.
Suddenly we’re being told railway tracks are too hot.
Tracks.
Made of steel.
Meanwhile trains apparently operate perfectly well in countries where people cook eggs on the pavement.
Britain looks at 34°C and simply says:
“Sorry, we’re not designed for this.”
THEN SOMEONE SAYS IT
Eventually, after approximately a week of relentless sunshine, sleepless nights and thighs permanently welded to furniture, somebody finally says:
“We could do with a bit of rain.”
And everyone agrees.
This is the turning point.
Seven days ago we were celebrating sunshine like we’d won the World Cup.
Now we’re standing at windows praying for clouds.
Weather apps are refreshed obsessively.
Thursday:
☀️
Friday:
☀️
Saturday:
☀️
Sunday:
🌦️
RAIN!
GLORIOUS RAIN!
You begin looking forward to precipitation.
AND THEN THE THUNDERSTORM ARRIVES
The sky goes black.
Wind appears from nowhere.
Garden furniture begins moving independently.
Someone’s gazebo achieves flight.
Then:
BOOM.
Rain falls.
Not normal rain.
Biblical rain.
A month’s worth in eleven minutes.
Drains immediately give up.
Roads flood.
Lightning knocks someone’s broadband out.
Your neighbour runs into the garden trying to rescue cushions.
And everyone stands at the window saying:
“Look at that!”
Because British people will stop whatever they’re doing to observe unusually aggressive weather.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER
The storm passes.
Temperature drops to 19°C.
The heatwave is over.
Britain exhales.
Windows close.
Fans are switched off.
The paddling pool is dismantled.
People sleep properly.
The weather presenter announces:
“Temperatures will be much cooler this weekend.”
And then something extraordinary happens.
Approximately 48 hours later, you’re standing outside beneath grey skies.
It’s 16°C.
Drizzling.
You look upward.
Sigh.
And say:
“Typical bloody British summer.”
Because that’s the system.
We spend nine months begging for sunshine.
Then the sunshine arrives.
For one day:
Lovely weather.
Two days:
Absolutely gorgeous.
Three days:
Bit warm.
Four days:
Can’t sleep.
Five days:
This is ridiculous.
Six days:
Close the curtains.
Seven days:
Has anyone got a fan?
Eight days:
THE COUNTRY IS MELTING.
Nine days:
NATIONAL EMERGENCY
And when the rain finally returns?
“Summer’s over then.”
See you next year.
When we’ll do exactly the same thing again.
