Feeling HOT
This article was written amidst the heat-soaked month London has just experienced. A bit late now I know, but I think we all felt this way at the time so here it is…
Feelin’ hot-hot-hot? The government have issued health warnings to cope with the impending heatwave this summer.
The powers that be have calculated that the increased temperatures will be enough to melt human skulls. Exact details are being kept quiet due to the possibility of widespread panic. A dehydrated population charged by static humidity and maturing springtime hormonal rages would face meltdown if they knew that their heads were going to drip down their necks.
People have been sensing this warm weather. Most of us have engaged our primitive reflexes and noticed the differences in pressure changes in comparison to last year. There are two summer’s worth of picnics and rounders to catch up on. We’re going to sweat until our skin dries out and our edges go all crispy; let us marinate in unemployment and cooling booze and enjoy the time before the landscape combusts too.
There are widespread reports of local children hacking holes in football pitches with golf clubs. They were assumed to be adapting the recreation area for summer sports but when questioned they claimed to be planting fig trees. The police assumed that the children were lying but were later assured that the climate was perfect for such Mediterranean props. Maybe we should all invest in such communal, solar-power fruit machines.
Pigeons suffer summer restlessness too and their feathers provide more protection from melting than a human’s straw hat would. You will see the males puff up their necks and court the females for hours; brushing their tail feathers along the ground suggestively. Even the few pigeons with full sets of working feet find it hard to pull; and so the sad horny rejects are left alone while the females fly off to the beach with their mates. Befriend these sad Romeos; we have a lot in common with them.
“Have some of my cheese twist, Polly. Have some ‘buyonegetonefreeonallpunnets’ strawberries, Polly. See you soon, Polly.”
There are rumours of sponsored raves happening over the country. Companies subsidise the music, drinks and food so that the ticket prices are reduced to £1,000 each. That’s fine because it keeps out the riff-raff. We real music lovers can sell our old season fur coats to amass the required capital.
The £10 tent will not provide adequate protection from your head dissolving into your shoulders. It would be best to stick to a cheap, flat-pack garden shed. Then you could leave it there for next year, and maybe even sow some rice or barley crops. This will help you keep costs down when the inevitable yearly price hike occurs at 200% higher than the going rate of inflation.
So, keep cool everyone. There is plenty to do before your head melts for the last time: add some winter veg to your pimms; bodyboard on a disposable barbeque; befriend the woodland creatures before they hibernate again; steal a bike and head to the nearest beach to keep the heat off… But whatever you do don’t take your t-shirt off in a public place; you will feel the wrath of bb-gun snipers who are offended by your perfect physique. Then you will melt and feel bad about it.
Words by Niko Firkin, photo by Shane Connolly