The Tyranny Of City Heat

I am an sweaty man. It’s not a pleasant image, I know, and if you do know me in person, you will be more than aware of this (especially if you’ve ever seen me drunkenly throwing myself around the dancefloor*). I can't do much about that; sure, the fact that I weigh a few extra pounds doesn’t help massively but, even if I was a beanpole, I’d still be sweaty. As such, I spend a lot of my time feeling pretty uncomfortable - any trip on public transport generally causes perspiration (yes, even in winter as you’re wrapped up against the cold and the heating will be blaring out full blast) to the degree that I bring a change of clothes with me to wear when I get to the office.

Where am I going with this frankly slightly disgusting train of thought, I’m sure you’re wondering? I’ll tell you where. I don’t like the hot weather. There. I’ve said it. This needn’t be a big revelation but, for some reason in this country, you’re expected to absolutely love it when it’s hot; to revel and glory in the blistering heat being bestowed upon you; to worship at the altar of the almighty sun. If you happen to pose a dissenting view to the somehow universally agreed upon ideal, you’re looked at like some sort of killjoy, a gloom-laden assassin of joy.

Well, I say enough is enough. Enough of this glorying in weather that makes commuting the sort of environment that you’re warned against leaving dogs in; that makes tempers already frayed with the annoyances of city life pushed to breaking point; that makes the city smell somehow even worse (like someone has put a turd on a radiator, smothered it in blue cheese and pilchards and left it to fester for a good three weeks). I say enough to the tyranny of city heat. I live and work in London and don’t want to experience what it must be a like to be a threadbare sock in an old and particularly sweaty trainer.

Having said all that, I will admit that there are exceptions to this “no hot weather” rule for me. If I can sit around in trunks by a pool with a beer and a book (but in the shade) and not have to move then, yes, under those circumstances is hot weather acceptable. Until then, don’t remark to me how lovely and hot it is. It’s hot, it’s horrible, I’m losing liquid in sweat form at a frankly alarming rate and my temper is so thin that I would remove your arm at the socket and beat you with it if it weren’t going to make me sweat even more. Come back to me when it’s mild with a bit of cooling breeze again.


* You could call it dancing but I feel that would not be a technically accurate description. “Fat man trying to put out fires on his own body” is technically more accurate.