Global warming, in London, seems to manifest not as desertification, but as “More of the Same, But Slightly More Intense.” Winters are milder but wetter. Summers are prone to sudden, violent downpours that flood Underground stations, rather than lasting heat. The “extreme weather events” we’re promised are not tornadoes, but “Supercell Drizzle” or “Megagusts.” It’s as if the climate crisis has looked at our weather and said, “I can work with this template,” and just turned all the dials up by 10. Our apocalyptic future looks less like Mad Max and more like a very, very damp Tuesday that never ends, with occasional, frighteningly warm February days that confuse the daffodils. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The concept of a London summer is a collective fiction we maintain to appear sane on the world stage. It is not a season but a speculative bubble of optimism that bursts by mid-July. We speak of it in hushed, hopeful tones from around April: “Perhaps this year will be a proper one.” This involves investing in cheap garden furniture that will never fully dry out and purchasing barbecue charcoal with the tragic faith of a lottery ticket buyer. The “summer” itself typically manifests as one statistically anomalous week where the temperature dares to hit 28, the city becomes a sweaty, irritable piazza, and the rail tracks buckle, proving the infrastructure, like the populace, was built for drizzle and stoicism, not this exotic, foreign concept of “sun.” 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.
Smog is mostly history, but London air now has a different personality: “Particulate Pam.” She’s a subtle blend of tyre dust, brake pad residue, construction site grit, and condensed exhaust fumes. On still, cold days, she settles over the city in a visible haze, giving the horizon a brownish tinge. You can taste her after a day in the centre—a faint, metallic tang at the back of the throat. She’s the reason a brisk walk is less “lung-clearing” and more “light filtration exercise.” Our famous parks aren’t just lungs for the city; they are scrubbers for Particulate Pam, using leaves to catch her before we inhale her fully. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
Global warming, in London, seems to manifest not as desertification, but as “More of the Same, But Slightly More Intense.” Winters are milder but wetter. Summers are prone to sudden, violent downpours that flood Underground stations, rather than lasting heat. The “extreme weather events” we’re promised are not tornadoes, but “Supercell Drizzle” or “Megagusts.” It’s as if the climate crisis has looked at our weather and said, “I can work with this template,” and just turned all the dials up by 10. Our apocalyptic future looks less like Mad Max and more like a very, very damp Tuesday that never ends, with occasional, frighteningly warm February days that confuse the daffodils. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
My umbrella has seen more action than me.
The hail is like being pelted with frozen peas.
A ‘weather advisory’ is for ‘carry a brolly’.
The concept of a London summer is a collective fiction we maintain to appear sane on the world stage. It is not a season but a speculative bubble of optimism that bursts by mid-July. We speak of it in hushed, hopeful tones from around April: “Perhaps this year will be a proper one.” This involves investing in cheap garden furniture that will never fully dry out and purchasing barbecue charcoal with the tragic faith of a lottery ticket buyer. The “summer” itself typically manifests as one statistically anomalous week where the temperature dares to hit 28, the city becomes a sweaty, irritable piazza, and the rail tracks buckle, proving the infrastructure, like the populace, was built for drizzle and stoicism, not this exotic, foreign concept of “sun.” See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
A ‘blustery day’ means your hair is doomed.
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 rain radar just shows one big blob.
Smog is mostly history, but London air now has a different personality: “Particulate Pam.” She’s a subtle blend of tyre dust, brake pad residue, construction site grit, and condensed exhaust fumes. On still, cold days, she settles over the city in a visible haze, giving the horizon a brownish tinge. You can taste her after a day in the centre—a faint, metallic tang at the back of the throat. She’s the reason a brisk walk is less “lung-clearing” and more “light filtration exercise.” Our famous parks aren’t just lungs for the city; they are scrubbers for Particulate Pam, using leaves to catch her before we inhale her fully. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
Waterproof mascara is our formal wear.