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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Dear London,

Okay. I get your point. It has been made loud and clear. Stop it now, I beg of you.

At the start of last month, I was sitting in a beer garden with my beloved, and we were the only fools in the beer garden. This is because at the start of last month it was FREEZE MY ASS OFF cold (and it takes a lot of cold to freeze my specific ass, let me assure you) but we were determined to enjoy the Great Outdoors, as technically it was summer and we wanted to be like in that Bulmers (NOT MAGNERS) ad with the man with the unbearably Oirish accent ("Toime dadikayshed tou youou").

And I complained that it was cold, and that it should be warm, and now, London, you are taking the proverbial PISS.

Because I doubt it's any hotter in hell. In fact, I'd like a quick visit down there just to clarify, because to be honest the tube in the morning rush hour is currently EXACTLY like the nuns told me eternal damnation would be BUT WITH MORE SWEATING.

Jesus H-ing Fuck Christ, it's getting hott in herre. As Nelly might have sung.

Seriously, though. Yesterday on the tube on the way home I drank an entire litre bottle of water between Chancery Lane and Liverpool Street, and that journey was one of the rare ones where we didn't even stop in the tunnel for any significant amount of time. And there was some obnoxious dude sitting down behind where I was standing who was not only leaning over and sweating on his own shoes (my stomach has never been so turned) but also letting out the most almighty rrrripping farts. Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeezus.

So, my final thoughts, dear London: Thank you for the heat that I asked for. Thank you so very much. Now take it away, please. I want the winter back.



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