Monday, March 28, 2016


    When you envisage the ideal Easter Monday Bank Holiday here in the UK, you would be a fool not to consider the possibility of a little drizzle intruding upon your 24 hours of ‘chocolates & rest’ bliss.

    We are hardened survivors of the “brief downpour”, stalwart tolerators of the “torrential blast from the heavens”, and valiant acceptors of the “nightmare storm so bleedin’ wet and windy it had the roof off me shed and ruined me £200 bloody gazebo”.

    But, people — who asked for fucking snow?

    Which one of you sent off the request a few weeks back as we were all basking in the melanoma-spawning heat?

    Wost part is, not a single flake settled.

    At least then we could have waved goodbye with good heart to any hope of sunbathing as we munched on our pre-melted melt-in-your-mouth chocolates till the heavens oozed with tangerine radiance and simply spent the day making Easter Bunny snowlapins.

    Instead, all we got was a despoiling flurry offering zilcho other than ruined dreams.

    I would not be surprised if we lose another 70s pop icon by nightfall.

    Come on, God — I know the whole “Son of...” deal worked out really badly for you, but for fuck’s sake, leave off willya?

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