As an exiled (to be fair it is my own choice) Englishman, one has at times bristled and become sensitive about despairing remarks concerning the mother country's summer climate. Often, one has been forced to listen to crude terminology dismissing the English climate (food, sports teams, female attractiveness...) as something to be avoided like a lonely Yorkshire Moor pub on a moonlit night. These remarks have been spouted from various nationalities, American, Dutch, Canadian, Kiwi, Ozzie even the odd native has been known to offer a comment or two. Usually it is met with a withering (at least that is how my memory records such discourses) put down and a long winded defence extolling the excellence of the English summer climate that goes something like this:
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It doesn't always f***ing rain you know!
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Often this starts me off on a comprehensive rant about how Hollywood depicts dear olde England in its pictures. You know, every town has a red double-decker, old fashioned red telephone box, accents that are either Dick Van Dyke cockney or David Niven posh....I could go on, but I can already hear the sirens....
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Sadly, and regrettably returning to my original point, my defence of the glorious English summer is about as accurate (and water-tight) as the national football team's back four. I have just returned to Hiroshima after spending four and a half weeks in the beautifully scenic North East of England and I saw the sun exactly twice - for about 15 minutes each. That was perhaps the coldest summer I have ever experienced, windy, gloomy and at times bloody chilly. The only saving grace was despite quite a bit of rain, my standard belief in the English climate was born out:
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It didn't always f***ing rain!
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