I’m not one to moan. There are only two little things that I hate about the summer. Everything and everybody. Apart from that it’s a whole lot of hunky fucking dory.
For one thing, there are the insects. And all manner of flying shit-bugs and annoying buzzy flying bastards. Round about July, I dust away the cobwebs that hold the patio doors closed and venture OUTSIDE into the garden, with that sort of hammy trepidation that Star Trek crew have when they beam down onto a new planet, which is clearly just a TV set with crimson lighting and painted polystyrene blocks. And I think, fuck, look at all the weeds that have grown everywhere. And I have to spend hours over days pulling up all the weeds and anything else green that grows in between them, like flowers, bushes and plants and shit. And when I have watered the brown and arid lawn by broadcasting beads of sweat from my shaking brow, I sit back with a beer in a chair and savour the neat and tidiness of my OUTSIDE domain - For a few minutes at least, until some wasp tries to get my beer and I go back INSIDE for the rest of the summer.
However, the demons of the outside follow me in. I have the stark choice between keeping all the windows closed to keep out the flying things and thus turning my home into a greenhouse until I am baked like a miserable over-ripe tomato, or I let in the air and suffer the hostility of nature invading my home like an unwanted sales-call. “Hello, is that Mr Bastard? I’m ringing from Nature.co.uk to see if you’re interested in a conversion of all the dirty filth-carrying flying buzzy things from garden pests into household pets.”
My particular nemesis is that same small uncatchable little bastard fly that carves out geometric lines in the air just underneath the light in the lounge ceiling. What a pointless existence this creature has. He doesn’t even fuck off to find some food to eat or shit on. He disappears when you stand up to try and catch him and reappears when you sit back down with a petulant thump.
Then there are the moths. They know you have to leave the windows open at night and they wait in anticipation for that moment when you have to turn the toilet light on; and they fly in while you piss and flutter about in front of your face where you can’t shoo them off because you’re holding your willy and yet you engage in some kind of demented convulsions until you realise that you’ve now pissed everywhere in the bathroom apart from in the pan.
That’s when it’s hot.
And when it’s hot, everyone you meet tells you that its hot, just in case you didn’t notice and thought that the reason why your shirt and pants were sticking to you was because you’d been shot in the chest and arse by a passing sociopathic youth. And when it’s not hot, the same bastards moan about how we aren’t having a proper summer, oblivious for a few seconds to the fact that they live on an island in the northern hemisphere on the edge of the Atlantic ocean and not in fucking Greece.
It’s bad enough that the weather is the default conversation of British people the whole year round anyway, but in the summer people also ALWAYS ask, “Are you going away this year?” Nosey cunts! What do they want to do? Rob your house when you’re not in? More likely they want to tell you about when THEY’RE going away.
And when it’s hot, blokes with no fat on their torsos strip off to the waist, because it’s so much cooler doing that than wearing a t-shirt and not at all because they want to show off their fat-less torsos and look like wankers. Am I jealous? Yes. Would I do the same if I was fat-less in the whole torso region? No, I’m not a wanker.
Right, I’ve had a moan, I’m going up the pub. Not to sit OUTSIDE and watch wasps dive-bomb my beer or shove their pointy arses in my eye-line and make me look an idiot as I spaz about with flailing arms trying to dissuade them from their practice. No, I shall sit inside and nurse a tepid bitter and rub pork scratchings on my eyeballs until I feel better.
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