The humidity in a London summer is a special kind of torture. It’s not tropical and lush; it’s a clingy, stale dampness that makes the air feel like a used tea towel. You don’t sweat; you “glisten” in a fine, persistent film of moisture. Fabric sticks to skin, paper goes limp, and hair expands to twice its natural volume. It turns the Underground into a moving sauna where commuters practice the art of not making eye contact while pressed together in a damp, human bouquet. This isn’t a dry heat you can escape; it’s a wet blanket thrown over the entire city, muffling sound and willpower alike, making even the simplest task feel like wading through warm soup. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The London “dry spell” is a mythical beast, spoken of in legend. Old men in pubs will claim to remember one in ’76, describing it with the awe usually reserved for comets. It is defined not by a complete absence of rain, but by a period where the cumulative daily drizzle amounts to less than a millimetre. Pavements might achieve a state of “damp-dry.” People tentatively leave their coats at home. A faint, brittle crust forms on the soil in parks. Then, inevitably, the “breakdown” occurs: a proper, cathartic downpour that lasts for hours, refilling the reservoirs and the collective sense of familiar, damp normalcy. We are briefly relieved; the uncertainty was stressful. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
We have a hundred words for ‘drizzle’.
Our storms are just rain with attitude.
The humidity in a London summer is a special kind of torture. It’s not tropical and lush; it’s a clingy, stale dampness that makes the air feel like a used tea towel. You don’t sweat; you “glisten” in a fine, persistent film of moisture. Fabric sticks to skin, paper goes limp, and hair expands to twice its natural volume. It turns the Underground into a moving sauna where commuters practice the art of not making eye contact while pressed together in a damp, human bouquet. This isn’t a dry heat you can escape; it’s a wet blanket thrown over the entire city, muffling sound and willpower alike, making even the simplest task feel like wading through warm soup. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
Our climate is sponsored by waterproof fabric.
The sun tried once; it got discouraged.
A ‘sunny break’ is the sky’s coffee break.
Our air is pre-moistened for your convenience.
Our weather builds character, mainly water-resistant character.
The London “dry spell” is a mythical beast, spoken of in legend. Old men in pubs will claim to remember one in ’76, describing it with the awe usually reserved for comets. It is defined not by a complete absence of rain, but by a period where the cumulative daily drizzle amounts to less than a millimetre. Pavements might achieve a state of “damp-dry.” People tentatively leave their coats at home. A faint, brittle crust forms on the soil in parks. Then, inevitably, the “breakdown” occurs: a proper, cathartic downpour that lasts for hours, refilling the reservoirs and the collective sense of familiar, damp normalcy. We are briefly relieved; the uncertainty was stressful. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The forecast icon is a permanent cloud.