I was in central Bradford yesterday seeing an old friend and I genuinely thought I was going to melt into the pavement. Not in a sexy, sun-kissed, Mediterranean kind of way either. No. I mean proper sticky, sweaty, uncomfortable, “why the fuck is my thighs chafing in June” heat. The kind of heat that makes your clothes stick to you and your make-up slide off your face before you’ve even got to the end of the street.
And there was no fucking sun.
None.
Just this thick, grey, oppressive gloom hanging over everything like the sky itself was in a bad mood. It was hot enough to make you feel like you were walking through soup, but dark enough that it felt like the world was ending. Cars were shimmering on the roads, people were walking around looking pissed off and shiny, and the whole city just felt… wrong. Like someone had turned the heating on full blast but forgotten to open the curtains.
That’s Britain for you, innit?
We don’t get proper weather. We get this weird, half-arsed, spiteful version of it that seems personally designed to make everyone miserable. Other countries get seasons. We get “mildly disappointing” on a loop. One minute it’s pissing down, the next it’s 28 degrees with 90% humidity and no sun in sight. You can’t even dress for it. You leave the house in a hoodie because it looked grey, then you’re sweating like a whore in church by 11 a.m. Or you wear something light because the forecast said warm, and then you’re freezing your tits off by lunchtime while it buckets it down.
I swear the British weather is actively taking the piss.
It’s not even consistent in its bullshit. At least if it was properly shit all the time you could prepare for it. But no. It likes to keep you on your toes. You wake up and it’s pissing with rain so you grab your brolly and your big coat, only for the sun to come out at 2 p.m. and turn everything into a sauna. Then by 5 p.m. it’s grey again and you’re walking around with your coat tied round your waist like some sad, sweaty teenager. There is no winning. The weather always wins.
And don’t even get me started on the humidity. People bang on about “it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity” like it’s some profound meteorological insight. In Britain it’s always the humidity. Even when it’s not hot. You can have a 16-degree day that feels like you’re walking through someone’s armpit because the air is so thick and wet. Your hair goes mental. Your make-up melts. Your clothes feel damp even when it hasn’t rained. It’s disgusting.
I was in Bradford yesterday and I was genuinely uncomfortable. Not “ooh it’s a bit warm” uncomfortable. Proper “I want to peel my skin off” uncomfortable. And the sky was this weird murky colour the whole time. No blue. No sunshine making everything look pretty. Just this flat, grey light that made everything look depressing. People were walking around looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. I saw one woman fanning herself with a Greggs bag while looking genuinely furious at the sky. I related to her on a spiritual level.
We’re supposed to be a nation that talks about the weather constantly, and yet we still act surprised every single time it does something weird. “Ooh it’s warm today isn’t it?” Yeah Brenda, it’s June. It’s supposed to be warm. The problem is it’s warm in the most miserable, grey, sticky way possible. There’s no joy in it. No lying in the park with an ice cream and actual sunshine on your face. Just this weird, humid oppression that makes you want to go home and sit in front of a fan with your tits out.
And the worst part? We just accept it. We’re so used to disappointing weather that we’ve developed this weird national pride in suffering through it. “Oh it’s British summer, what do you expect?” I expect to be able to wear a dress without my thighs trying to fuse together, Sharon. I expect to be able to sit outside without feeling like I’m in a tropical rainforest that’s somehow also freezing cold and grey. But no. We just put up with it. We complain about it constantly and then do nothing. Classic Britain.
I’ve been to places where the weather actually makes sense. Places where summer means sun and heat and you can actually enjoy being outside without feeling like you’re slowly being cooked in your own sweat while the sky actively tries to depress you. Here? You’re lucky if you get three decent days in a row. And even then, someone will say “ooh but it might rain later” like they’re personally offended by the idea of consistent weather.
The British weather doesn’t just ruin your day. It ruins your whole vibe. You plan something nice and the weather decides to have a breakdown. You buy cute summer clothes and then spend the entire summer wearing jeans and a hoodie because it’s either pissing down or weirdly cold. You try to have a nice day out and end up sheltering under a shop doorway with a bunch of other wet, angry people while the heavens open for the third time that afternoon.
It’s taking the piss. It really is.
And the grey. My God, the grey. I swear half the country is suffering from seasonal depression all year round because we barely see the sun for months at a time. Even in summer it finds ways to be miserable. Yesterday in Bradford was the perfect example. Hot enough to make you uncomfortable, but dark enough that it felt like November had come early. Who the fuck designed this system? Because I want a word.
I’m so over it. I’m over the unpredictability. I’m over the humidity. I’m over the constant grey. I’m over having to carry a coat, an umbrella, sunglasses and a change of clothes every time I leave the house just in case the weather has a breakdown halfway through the day. It’s exhausting. And it’s boring. Give me proper weather. Give me heatwaves that actually feel like heatwaves. Give me proper rain that lasts an hour and then fucks off. Give me seasons that make sense. Instead we get this weird, half-arsed, spiteful British compromise that seems designed specifically to keep everyone slightly miserable and complaining.
I’m done. I’m actually done. I want to move somewhere the weather doesn’t feel like it’s personally attacking me on a daily basis. Somewhere the sun actually comes out and stays out. Somewhere I can wear a dress in summer without my thighs trying to start a fire. Somewhere the sky isn’t permanently the colour of a depressed pigeon.
But until then, I’ll just keep complaining. Because that’s what we do here. We complain about the weather, we accept it, and then we complain some more. It’s our national sport.
Oh well, can’t wait, just a week to go before I get my batteries reset for another month. Until then, I’ll just cope in this grey hell scape.