The hot weather brings it all out
SATURDAY was supposedly the hottest day of the year so far! (I hope this record doesn’t stand through a bleak and miserable April, May and June).
I’ve been on a walk in the June sunshine with my beloved; the northern landscape coming alive from its winter kicking from a bunch of storms named ‘ Arwen, Barra, Malik and Corrie’
Catastrophic meteorological monsters that wrought havoc to these isles?
Givowwer !
They sound like the sort of kids’ names you’d hear shouted out by a Jesmond yoga mummy in Waitrose – or gap yah types who’d share a wigwam whilst glamping at Glastonbury !
They certainly don’t sound like the sort of radgies who’d trash yer garden, pull your roof off and vandalise your car.
Maybe we need to hear the sort of names of the hard cases and heedthe-balls you used to fear at secondary school back in the day!
So let’s hear it for storms Mad Malla, Mental Ernie and Geet Glue Sniffer Gaz. They’d certainly have us boarding up the windows and sandbagging the doorsteps.
Imagine the weather warning; “Storm Big Knacka Barry will be blowing in from a direction that’s none of our f***** business, reet? Despite the predicted 18 inches of rain, public are advised not to wear coats, as this is soft and will only encourage higher wind speeds and more destruction.”
Anyway, back to me rambling (geddit !).
Out on me walk, I feel glad to be alive – the rural land down south might be pretty, but our rugged countryside is beautiful in its rugged splendour; the Cotswolds might put an arm around you and make you smile, but our moors will knock you on your backside if you don’t respect them.
The warming rays of the spring sun seem to bring out not only the verdant June flora – but also a bewildering range of humanity that heads straight out into the sticks as if following some primeval homing instinct.
The first thing I radge about is the sudden convoys of caravans, camper vans and caravettes that swamp the highways like a scene from a disaster movie.
Now divvn’t get me wrong. I’m not anti-caravan as such; indeed many of my earliest vacation memories involve being trapped with dysfunctional relatives in a steel box during the monsoon at Crimdon Dene or Amble. No .
My big whinge about such vehicles is with the people who name them. The titles ‘Swift Arrow’ or ‘Jet Stream Freedom 2’ begin to wear a bit thin when you are stuck behind them on the four-mile tailback on the A1 near Shilbottle.
I can’t mention that fine place without doffing my cap to the hero who regularly slips out in the dead of night and changes the first ‘l’ into a letter T.
He (aye it’s a he – lasses have got more sense) most probably lives there too.
Every time it is removed , it mysteriously reappears like a blood stain in a haunted house. Magic!
As the sun blazes doon , I have a world of advice for mature radgies, from my mate Big Dave (another storm contender?). So, if you manage to get badly sunburned, don’t hoy calamine lotion all over to ensure you sleep. Pop a viagra – works a treat – keeps the sheets off all night!