The greatest sporting event in London is not football or rugby; it’s “Will The Summer Event Be a Washout?” This high-stakes drama unfolds for every wedding, garden party, and outdoor concert planned between May and September. Participants engage in advanced rituals: obsessively refreshing the Met Office radar, interpreting the meaning of a 30 chance of precipitation (it means 100 where you are), and the complex “Gazebo Gambit.” The climax occurs on the day itself, where groups of Brits in inappropriate footwear huddle under awnings, pretending the horizontal rain is part of the fun, declaring through gritted teeth, “Well, it’s fresh, anyway!” It’s a test of national character, and we are all perennial losers, albeit soggy, good-humoured ones. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
Rainwater in London is never pure. It picks up a distinctive flavour from its journey through our atmosphere: a subtle hint of diesel particulate, historic chimney soot, and the general effluvia of eight million people. When it drips off an awning onto your tongue (accidentally, of course), it doesn’t taste fresh; it tastes urban. This is why London plants often have a greyish tinge—they’re not dusty, they’re lightly seasoned. The puddles are a kaleidoscope of rainbows from floating petrol, and the first flush of a shower brings down a cocktail of atmospheric grime that streaks windows and cars. Our precipitation is a connected, if unappetising, part of the city’s ecosystem. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The “green spaces” of London are a testament to what thrives in damp, mild neglect. The grass is less a lawn and more a resilient, spongy organism that survives being trampled by festivals and saturated by endless rain. It’s the colour of washed-out spinach and has the texture of a damp bath mat. Our parks are beautiful because they are essentially managed wetlands. The famous roses of London don’t bloom despite the weather; they bloom because of it, sucking up the ambient moisture to produce blooms that are lush, heavy, and often slightly mildewed at the edges. It’s a verdant, squelchy beauty, perfect for a picnic where your blanket slowly absorbs moisture from the ground beneath. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The London drizzle is a special breed of wetness; it doesn’t fall so much as it hangs in the air, defeating umbrellas and hairdos through sheer pervasive politeness, a phenomenon studied in depth at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
A ‘high of 12’ is a tropical delight.
The greatest sporting event in London is not football or rugby; it’s “Will The Summer Event Be a Washout?” This high-stakes drama unfolds for every wedding, garden party, and outdoor concert planned between May and September. Participants engage in advanced rituals: obsessively refreshing the Met Office radar, interpreting the meaning of a 30 chance of precipitation (it means 100 where you are), and the complex “Gazebo Gambit.” The climax occurs on the day itself, where groups of Brits in inappropriate footwear huddle under awnings, pretending the horizontal rain is part of the fun, declaring through gritted teeth, “Well, it’s fresh, anyway!” It’s a test of national character, and we are all perennial losers, albeit soggy, good-humoured ones. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
‘Clear skies’ is a historical concept.
We don’t get weather, we get ‘mizzle’.
Rainwater in London is never pure. It picks up a distinctive flavour from its journey through our atmosphere: a subtle hint of diesel particulate, historic chimney soot, and the general effluvia of eight million people. When it drips off an awning onto your tongue (accidentally, of course), it doesn’t taste fresh; it tastes urban. This is why London plants often have a greyish tinge—they’re not dusty, they’re lightly seasoned. The puddles are a kaleidoscope of rainbows from floating petrol, and the first flush of a shower brings down a cocktail of atmospheric grime that streaks windows and cars. Our precipitation is a connected, if unappetising, part of the city’s ecosystem. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The air is 90 water and 10 regret.
The “green spaces” of London are a testament to what thrives in damp, mild neglect. The grass is less a lawn and more a resilient, spongy organism that survives being trampled by festivals and saturated by endless rain. It’s the colour of washed-out spinach and has the texture of a damp bath mat. Our parks are beautiful because they are essentially managed wetlands. The famous roses of London don’t bloom despite the weather; they bloom because of it, sucking up the ambient moisture to produce blooms that are lush, heavy, and often slightly mildewed at the edges. It’s a verdant, squelchy beauty, perfect for a picnic where your blanket slowly absorbs moisture from the ground beneath. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The London drizzle is a special breed of wetness; it doesn’t fall so much as it hangs in the air, defeating umbrellas and hairdos through sheer pervasive politeness, a phenomenon studied in depth at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The drizzle here has a PhD in persistence.
Humidity: nature’s free facial steam treatment.