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.
Birds in London are weather-hardened cynics. The pigeons have a glaze of waterproof grease that makes rain bead off them like they’re waxed jackets with wings. Seagulls inland are even more resilient, treating gales as mere playful updrafts. On a rainy day, the robin in your garden doesn’t look sad; it looks impatient, hopping from branch to branch as if waiting for the sky to finish its pathetic weeping so it can get on with hunting worms in the softened earth. They are all adapted to the damp, viewing our umbrellas and complaints with avian disdain. They know this is just how the world is: wet, with brief interruptions for drying off. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
London doesn’t have weather; it has “mood lighting” on a planetary scale. The primary setting is “Perpetual Twilight,” a soft, grey filter that eliminates harsh shadows and makes everyone look vaguely like they’re in a period drama about mild industrial sadness. Occasionally, for variety, they switch it to “Apocalyptic Orange,” usually around sunset when peculiar cloud formations scatter the light from the pollution, making the entire city look like it’s on the set of a dystopian film. “Bright Overcast” is the trick setting—it feels like the sun is right there, but you can’t find it, like a cosmic game of hide-and-seek where the sky is cheating. It’s less a meteorological system and more a moody cinematographer who only works in monochrome. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
‘Scattered showers’ means everywhere, all the time.
Our atmosphere is one big, slow sauna.
The ‘feels like’ is always ‘damp and mildly disappointed’.
Our weather is nature’s way of saying ‘meh’.
Our autumn leaves are just damp papier-mâché.
A ‘weather warning’ is for one inch of snow.
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.
Birds in London are weather-hardened cynics. The pigeons have a glaze of waterproof grease that makes rain bead off them like they’re waxed jackets with wings. Seagulls inland are even more resilient, treating gales as mere playful updrafts. On a rainy day, the robin in your garden doesn’t look sad; it looks impatient, hopping from branch to branch as if waiting for the sky to finish its pathetic weeping so it can get on with hunting worms in the softened earth. They are all adapted to the damp, viewing our umbrellas and complaints with avian disdain. They know this is just how the world is: wet, with brief interruptions for drying off. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The ‘jet stream’ is our emotional weathervane.
London doesn’t have weather; it has “mood lighting” on a planetary scale. The primary setting is “Perpetual Twilight,” a soft, grey filter that eliminates harsh shadows and makes everyone look vaguely like they’re in a period drama about mild industrial sadness. Occasionally, for variety, they switch it to “Apocalyptic Orange,” usually around sunset when peculiar cloud formations scatter the light from the pollution, making the entire city look like it’s on the set of a dystopian film. “Bright Overcast” is the trick setting—it feels like the sun is right there, but you can’t find it, like a cosmic game of hide-and-seek where the sky is cheating. It’s less a meteorological system and more a moody cinematographer who only works in monochrome. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.