Well shit the bed. The warm weather seems to have actually arrived for good this week or at least that’s what the world’s hottest weather presenter tells me on Look North. Apparently it’s here to stay. Gone are the days when people slate the weather presenters for being wrong simply because they’re always so damn beautiful, but I still hope this time that Paul Hudson’s got it right. The big hunk.
Barometers, anemometers and thermometers aside we’re apparently set for a scorcher this weekend. So whilst we can all enjoy the bbq’s and the scantily clad women roaming around our streets, they’ll no doubt be those few select girls that let the side down. They’ll still wear the hot weather attire, but they’ll ruin what would ordinarily be a nice walk in the sun by being fat. It happens every time the sun comes out; some morbidly obese heffalump decides to don the smallest pair of hot pants she’s got, with the most revealing top she can squeeze her fat tits into. They’re normally so revealing that you can see her ridiculous paw print tattoo’s that she has directly besides her nipples. That monstrosity of a mix up with the art of tattooing is inevitably propped up by a truly huge gunt (which I should clarify, is a cross between a gut and the part it overhangs). I’ve just been sick down myself thinking about it.
Aside from dodging fatties in the street, we all seem to have to contend with a new pest this summer; the arrival of the 11th plague – the greenflies. It’s almost like Jesus wants to punish us, but doesn’t think we’ve actually been naughty enough to deserve the locusts – nope, instead he’ll just abuse us with a swarm of green things that don’t do anything other than get stuck in your hair, your clothes and worst of all your Sub of the day. There’s nothing quite like chowing down on your most favourite snack (Italian BMT on a 6” herb and cheese, with a slight smattering of sweet onion sauce) until the greenfly brigade arrive. Yesterday, having devoured most of the 6” of pure pleasure (wahey!), the pesky flies decided they’d rather like a go on the remnants of my sandwich and swarmed around me. I’ll level you with, I was scared. Not because the flies are terrifying… just that you can’t help eating them when you’re trying to escape. I must have washed about three generations of flies out of my hair since then. In fact, I still feel like they’re on me now.
If someone could tell me what these green flies actually do in life then that would be splendid. So far, all they seem to be doing it keeping me out of the sunshine. Although, maybe it’s a blessing in disguise; I won’t run the risk of needing to bleach my eyes each and every time I see an outrageously fat pair of breasts pumping up and down in front of me. Can’t we just make the chubby slags take their benefit supplying children down town on say, a Monday? That way I’ll know not to bother.