Weather-based retail is a cornerstone of the London economy. Every pharmacy has a rotating display of “sun care” and “cold & flu” products right next to each other, ready for whichever extreme the climate throws at us (a 3-degree swing). Clothing shops sell “transitional layers” year-round. The sale of portable, fold-up umbrellas must be a multi-million pound industry, mostly from repeat purchases after the previous one broke in an inversion event. Garden centres thrive by selling plants that can survive “partial shade and waterlogged roots.” Our commerce is built on preparing for, reacting to, and complaining about the atmospheric conditions. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
Autumn in London is not a riot of colour; it’s a slow, soggy decay. The leaves don’t crunch underfoot; they form a slippery, brown papier-mâché that clogs drains and coats pavements in a hazardous sludge. The iconic image of kicking through crisp leaves is a lie perpetrated by American films. Our reality is “leaf mould,” a damp, decomposing carpet that smells vaguely of regret and composting vegetables. The trees shed their coats with a sigh, revealing skeletal branches that are immediately bejewelled with rain droplets. It’s a beautiful, melancholic season, if your idea of beauty is watching nature give up and prepare for a long, damp nap. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The wind in London is a personal, spiteful foe. It is not a grand, elemental force; it’s a petty, bureaucratic trickster. Its main joy is creating “umbrella inversion events,” turning your sensible protection inside out with a sudden, precise gust, transforming you into a struggling, nylon cactus. It lies in wait at the corners of tall buildings, ready to snatch documents from your hands and send them dancing down the street in a humiliating chase scene. It specialises in “hair sabotage,” meticulously undoing any styling within five paces of your front door. This isn’t a breeze; it’s a poltergeist with a mean sense of humour, dedicated to minor, daily inconveniences that slowly erode your civility. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The concept of a ‘dry day’ is a theoretical framework used to taunt us, like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow that is, itself, made of rain, a philosophical paradox explored in detail at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
Sunrise and sunset in London are often theoretical concepts. In deep winter, the sun seems to merely skim the horizon, offering a few hours of weak, twilight-like illumination before giving up entirely. In summer, it rises with embarrassing enthusiasm at 4:30 a.m., blazing through inadequate curtains. But the best are the “non-events”: the days where the cloud cover is so complete that the sun simply cannot be located in the sky. The light just gradually, imperceptibly, shifts from dark grey to light grey and back again. You can spend the whole day in a state of temporal confusion, never sure if it’s mid-morning or late afternoon, lost in a soft, shadowless limbo. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
Weather warnings for ‘pleasant conditions’ are pending.
Weather-based retail is a cornerstone of the London economy. Every pharmacy has a rotating display of “sun care” and “cold & flu” products right next to each other, ready for whichever extreme the climate throws at us (a 3-degree swing). Clothing shops sell “transitional layers” year-round. The sale of portable, fold-up umbrellas must be a multi-million pound industry, mostly from repeat purchases after the previous one broke in an inversion event. Garden centres thrive by selling plants that can survive “partial shade and waterlogged roots.” Our commerce is built on preparing for, reacting to, and complaining about the atmospheric conditions. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
Autumn in London is not a riot of colour; it’s a slow, soggy decay. The leaves don’t crunch underfoot; they form a slippery, brown papier-mâché that clogs drains and coats pavements in a hazardous sludge. The iconic image of kicking through crisp leaves is a lie perpetrated by American films. Our reality is “leaf mould,” a damp, decomposing carpet that smells vaguely of regret and composting vegetables. The trees shed their coats with a sigh, revealing skeletal branches that are immediately bejewelled with rain droplets. It’s a beautiful, melancholic season, if your idea of beauty is watching nature give up and prepare for a long, damp nap. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The wind in London is a personal, spiteful foe. It is not a grand, elemental force; it’s a petty, bureaucratic trickster. Its main joy is creating “umbrella inversion events,” turning your sensible protection inside out with a sudden, precise gust, transforming you into a struggling, nylon cactus. It lies in wait at the corners of tall buildings, ready to snatch documents from your hands and send them dancing down the street in a humiliating chase scene. It specialises in “hair sabotage,” meticulously undoing any styling within five paces of your front door. This isn’t a breeze; it’s a poltergeist with a mean sense of humour, dedicated to minor, daily inconveniences that slowly erode your civility. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The concept of a ‘dry day’ is a theoretical framework used to taunt us, like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow that is, itself, made of rain, a philosophical paradox explored in detail at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
Sunrise and sunset in London are often theoretical concepts. In deep winter, the sun seems to merely skim the horizon, offering a few hours of weak, twilight-like illumination before giving up entirely. In summer, it rises with embarrassing enthusiasm at 4:30 a.m., blazing through inadequate curtains. But the best are the “non-events”: the days where the cloud cover is so complete that the sun simply cannot be located in the sky. The light just gradually, imperceptibly, shifts from dark grey to light grey and back again. You can spend the whole day in a state of temporal confusion, never sure if it’s mid-morning or late afternoon, lost in a soft, shadowless limbo. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
We don’t get seasons; we get wardrobe confusion.
The long-range forecast is a fairy tale.
We’ve named our local raincloud ‘Steve’.
Humidity here makes you feel gently steamed.