Misinformed, angry, coffee-addled ranting.
Originally, this article was going to be about my feelings of absolute irrelevance and apathy after the crushing realisation that the script I’ve just finished after several months of work will most likely never see the light of day, rendering me with nothing to do but sit around playing video games and lamenting all the wasted hours I pissed up the wall on that pointless project. About how the completion of such an endeavour leaves one with nothing but a hollow emptiness, bitterly resenting the hours of potential productivity dashed in favour of such futile labour.
But then I realised that, even for me, that might be a wee bit misanthropic and depressing. Plus I ate a cupcake that was all lemony and fizzy (fizzy! it was awesome) and that cheered me right up.
So I’ve decided to moan about the weather instead. Or, more accurately, moan about people moaning about the weather. I know, it’s like Inception, only instead of Leonardo DiCaprio shooting things and being awesome you’ve got a borderline repugnant skinny layabout from the East Midlands complaining to no one in particular for no apparent reason – (I maintain that blogging is only one step above that homeless guy that smells of each and every bodily fluid who shrieks at you at the bus stop about how “The Government are, like, watching us maaaaaaaaaaaaaan”).
I’ve written before about the Great British weather, but this time instead of bitching about peoples’ obsession with snow, I get to bitch about their obsession with the sun. You can’t say I’m not varied. What’s that you say? Rehashing? I don’t know the meaning of the word.
Anyway, for those not living in Britain, or without regular access to a window, (perhaps you’re chained up in a basement somewhere being brutally sodomised by an overweight man in a gimp suit – though how you’re reading this I have no idea) it’s been rather hot recently. The sunshine has been glorious, the rainfall minimal. But unfortunately this luxurious weather proves the age old maxim of why people can’t have nice things – it has brought forth the worst of society, the Über-cocks if you will, who ruin it for the rest of us.
There are, of course those well-intentioned but misguided fools who post screenshots of their iPhone weather forecast, under the mistaken impression that they are the only individuals blessed enough to have access to this Top Secret information and as such must share it with the world. We know it’s hot, we’re sat here bollock naked strapping 6-packs of ice-cold Sprite to our chests like a bomb-vest trying to cool down. We don’t need you to tell us.
Still, they’re at least better than the fools who post pointless Tweets along the lines of
“It’s so cold out today! LOL JK! #Summer”
Arseholes. Or of course the immortally eloquent Facebook updates along the lines of
“It’s so hot I’m sweating like an X in a Y”.
Personal highlights include “like a Jew in a Gas Chamber” or “like a Kiddy-Fiddler at the park”. The possibilities are endless. It’s like a DIY bell-end kit.
Then we move onto the divisive issue of people’s clothing choices. Being in Britain, we are of course, hopelessly unfashionable. At the merest sniff of sunlight, acres of pale flabby flesh is unfurled across the country, like a tidal wave of badly tattooed blubber.
One of the annual hot-button topics of summer is the issue of whether or not men should be allowed to walk around topless. Here is a handy cut-out-and-keep guide on the rules of baring your man-boobs:
Being shirtless is acceptable if:
Being shirtless is NOT acceptable:
It’s a minefield I admit, but follow these simple rules and you’ll be fine. The punishment for breaking any of them by the way is a single, forceful, open-palmed slap to your sunburnt chest. Hopefully that should keep all the arguments down to a minimum and we can focus on the real issues with summer.
Moths. Crane Flies. Spiders. Other spindly legged demons of hatred who clearly spend the rest of the year lurking amongst Satan’s pubic hair, emerging only when it gets hot enough to make sure we don’t have a minute of pleasure in our sad, pitiful lives on this spinning lump of rock. These bastards may have you believe they’re simple creatures with no more brain capacity than your last bowel movement, but trust me, they know what they’re doing. Like an expertly trained KGB agent circa-1983 they infiltrate our bedrooms with impossible ease and unleash their malevolent brand of hell.
They ruin the best moments of your favourite TV program as they buzz in front of your face with expert timing. They fly into your mouth as you try and settle down to sleep. And of course there’s the awkward moment when you’re relaxing naked on your bed because it’s so hot and they briefly land on your genitals and you freak out and smack yourself in the balls and wonder if technically you’ve just committed bestiality. Or maybe that’s just me…
Anyway. Enjoy the sun. Bask in its rays like the cretinous lizard you are. Because any day now it’ll be gone. And we’ll be back to our miserable grey worthless existence, except it’ll be worse because we’ll all have sunburn.