Under the weather
Apart from inventing concentration camps, bangers & mash and Americans, the English have quite a lot to be proud of. We beat Napoleon and Hitler, started the industrial revolution and introduced the world to football – and Keira Knightley.
But why does the fucking country go into meltdown every time it snows? This must be the only country in Europe that comes to a standstill whenever the sky turns pink and the flakes start fluttering from on high.
I mean, are we living in Sub-Saharian Africa or what? Every year without fail you can put your crown jewels on it snowing in England, and yet every year we look out of the window with awe and wonder as if a spaceship has just landed on the lawn. ‘What is it?’ we say. ‘How long will it stay?’ we ask. ‘Will it stop me going to work?’.
The answer to the last question is a big, almighty yes, as over in Whitehall, emergency war cabinets are set up and orders given to issue ‘severe weather warnings’. Because this snow stuff is dangerous, innit?. Who knows what it might do. It can kill, you know. So next up, the trains stop working, the buses stop running and the schools are closed for business. No, seriously, what? It’s SNOW! It falls EVERY YEAR!
Has it not crossed anyone’s mind to think about investing in a few snow ploughs once in a while? Obviously Dear old Gordon Brown is engaged in far more important matters, like invading Afghanistan or ensuring we get an extra holiday in 2012 to celebrate the Queen’s 60th anniversary. A few days off, after all, will help people forget that the country is flushing itself further and further down the economic plughole and into the darkest of Brown sewers, won’t they?
To make matters worse all you hear on the radio from noon until night talk about the weather. Honest to God, as I write the normally brilliant BBC Radio Five Live have got nothing better to do than ask reporters around the country how many centimetres of snow there have been in Birmingham, Bolton and Bridgewater. Talk about a national stereotype. And look at me, I’m doing it in all!
Which means that Calvin has been ripping the piss out of me all day. ‘Did you know that yesterday it was cloudy?’ he goes. ‘And, guess what, today it’s snowing,’ he drones. ‘And you know what else? Tomorrow they reckon it might be sunny’. ‘Yeah, yeah, I get the point, boss,’ I says, before reminding him which muppet it is that’s actually looking to buy a place in London.
The worst thing about all of this snow nonsense though is that they have started calling off sporting events. Last night they called off the Carling Cup semi-final between Aston Villa and Blackburn and tonight’s other semi between Manchester United and Man City. They’ll bin the Arsenal match tonight as well.
Apparently, the pitches were perfectly playable but ‘they’ were worried about the roads being treacherous. Bollocks! ‘They’ should have thought about that before deciding against investing in those fucking snowploughs.
Still, at least we have got all-weather racetracks so that some racing can go ahead in these lean betting times. Oh hold on – no we haven’t. Because in between the 76th Five Live report on how many inches of snow fell overnight in Weston-super-Mare – they have told us that the racing in Lingfield is off. Lingfield, the ALL-WEATHER race track.
“Having spoken to a number of people we have decided that it is not safe to access the track and have abandoned today’s meeting,” chuntered Neil Mackenzie Ross, who, for now, is clerk of the course at Lingfield. “We may have been able to clear the snow from the site but all reports tell me that it is making the course inaccessible and it has left us with no choice.”
So the pitches are fine and the racetracks are fine but the roads are fucked. Welcome to England Calvin.
The only good thing to come out of all this is that the Labour party are beginning to see the light and turn against Gordon Brown with the odds already out on who will be the next leader. Better still Calvin can’t get back to Antigua because all the airport runways are all closed.
Snow, ho, ho boss.
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