The Irish are the greatest shower of whingers.
We spend most of the year griping about the weather, which is fair enough because it is usually grey, cold and raining.
Out of the blue [sic] a fine spell comes along.
The temperature crawls above freezing for a few days, the sky turns an unnatural shade of blue and we are subjected to a strange phenomenon called sunshine.
I like this weather. I like being able to discard layers of clothing. I like being able to switch off the central heating. I like being able to wander around my estate without worrying about rising damp in my legs.
Within two days of the start of a fine spell, you start to hear them –
- We could do with some rain for the garden.
- Jayzus, but it’s too hot.
- This heat is killing me.
- When is this heat going to end?
Shower of fucking tossers.
It being the weekend, of course about ten million people are going to climb into their cars and head for the beaches. They will never get there, because they will spend the day stuck in traffic along with all the other nine hundred and ninety nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine people. Eventually, they will give up and go home and spend the rest of the week bitching about the miserable weekend they had, and the appalling state of our roads.
My advice is to make hay while the sun shines. Get out there and burn yourself to a frazzle [but just avoid the beaches]. Get yourself a grand dose of melanoma so that when the miserable weather returns [which it will], you will have a little reminder of the fine spell.
I’m heading up the hill tops. This is great weather for sport. I love the rustle of the breeze and the smell of heather. I love the call of the skylark and the scream of injured tourists.
I never complain about fine weather.
It brings out the visitors in their droves.