Get the sandbags out - we’re doomed!
I CAN remember a time not too long ago when heavy rain and gales were simply put down to the “bloody British weather”.
Not anymore. Now it’s the work of some distant hurricane with a name that belies its power.
I cannot recall a single storm hitting these shores during schooldays. Now they are near monthly occurrences.
“And we will be experiencing,” weathermen regularly announce, “the tail-end of Hurricane Ethel.”
This week it was Storm Helene’s turn to “wreak havoc” in our area. For “havoc” read a bit wet and windy.
On Tuesday, the Daily Mail, which regularly informs readers Ramsgate will be colder than Reykjavik, Surburbia hotter than the Sudan, struggled to dramatise the brewing storm.
Under the headline ‘Wrath of Helene batters Britain’, it stated: “Helene will bring unseasonably warm weather to South East England as the low pressure draws up warm air from the south.”
Oh my God, unseasonably warm weather! Grab your cat and run to the shelters.
In truth, Storm Helene, which start- ed as a hurricane, was a whimper in my neck of the woods, which has a lot of woods. It was the anaemic sister of Hurricane Florence that has caused death and destruction in Florida.
There is no truth in rumours that President Trump, when told Hurricane Florence was set to cause severe problems, remarked: “Can we give her the same payout as Stormy Daniels?”
I do not know who is tasked with giving a title to these acts of nature, but I conjure up images of a rather twee middle-aged woman who likes cats.
“This one seems particularly beastly,” I can hear her fussing, “I’ll call it Hurricane Timothy because that’s a naughty boy’s name.”
Give me the job and you’d soon be feeling the backlash of Storm Tyson or Hurricane Vlad the Impaler.
This week’s storm spawned the usual media frenzy, with predictions of 70 mph winds and torrential rain.
The Sun warned: “Wind speeds are expected to clock up to 75 mph in North Wales, Northern England, Northern Ireland and Scotland.
“People in these areas are being told to expect transport delays, damage to buildings, falling trees, power cuts and potential injuries.”
Another tabloid blared: “Road and rail services avoided the strongest winds, but drivers are still advised to take care.”
This missive begs a question: shouldn’t motorists take care regardless of conditions?
It suggests it will be followed by: “The sun’s out, start putting your make-up on at the wheel and grab your mobile phones.”
Having worked the local population into a lather, our sister newspaper the Birmingham Mail admitted on Tuesday afternoon: “Forecasters have downgraded warnings that Storm Helene could pose a risk to life when it hits.
A spokesman for the Met Office said Helene could fell a few trees, which could bring disruption to transport links, but did not think it would reach the 70mph winds originally predicted.”
Still, a few trees! Get the sandbags out. We’re doomed!
The West Midlands missed the worst of Hurricane/Storm Helene – by quite a few hundred miles.
We usually do. In fact, everyone living east of Miami usually misses the worst of these exotic storms.
This does not matter to hacks who are hungry for extreme weather stories to match the drama of a Sahara dry summer.
Therefore we have been treated to alarmist headlines such as: “Killer 100 mph storms to hit your nan’s house”.
Hurricane Helene was downgraded before breezing into Birmingham. That doesn’t matter. For the media, weather stories are big business.
Just weeks ago, one local newspaper warned: “After a chilly start rain is expected to sweep into Birmingham on Saturday before the onset of a cold snap that could see temperatures fall to -10°C (14°F) in some parts of the far north of the country.”
Rain? In September? Heavens, what’s happening to this planet? It must be a sign from God.
“North of the country”, the article later revealed, means The Cairngorms. In truth, it usually means the Cairngorms.
Twenty-four hour reporting, courtesy of social media, has only cranked up the worth of weather stories.
Recently, one news site announced excitedly: “Wolverhampton hit by hailstones!” I know. I’ve got a window. Nothing quite gets the journalistic juices flowing like impending snow, a fluffy substance I used to find quite charming, but now, thanks to the media, I consider as lethal as napalm falling from the sky.
The predictions of an “Arctic winter” have already begun. “Whiteout!” screamed one red top. “Some parts of the country* set to be colder than Moscow as Storm Julian Clary moves in.” (* the Cairngorms).
Likening conditions in your own patch to some far-flung corner of the globe is journalistic chestnut. In winter it’s usually Moscow, in summer it’s Death Valley, which is an odd one.
I don’t see images from Death Valley of local lovelies sporting bikinis and eating ice-creams, accompanied by the caption: “Bank worker Sally Smith makes the most of the searing heat in Death Valley by topping up her tan. ”
That’s because it would have to include the line: “Sally has only eight minutes to live.”