“It’ll be a glorious summer (if you’re a fish or a duck)”

Shortly before leaving for our recent holiday in Venice we made the mistake of checking the weather forecast for that region and our hearts sank: thunderstorms were predicted for every day of that week, with the exception of our last day when the skies would again return to their customary acrylic blue and the temperatures would then soar above 30 degrees centigrade. So it was with a heavy heart but wearing the stoical expression the British reserve for such occasions, that we resolved to make the best of our holiday. 

But the bad weather never came. We enjoyed sunshine and sweltering heat throughout, with the exception of our last day when it was a little overcast. Surely a practical joke perpetrated by malevolent weather centre staff frustrated that their more glamorous TV counterparts got first pick of the holiday rota? Or incompetence? 

Although, really, what are the consequences of getting it wrong? Weather forecasters, alongside English football referees, must rank as one of the few classes of ‘professionals’ who appear to be fully exempt from the consequences which would befall professionals of any other field who consistently get things wrong. Imagine, for instance, the same level of leeway afforded to, say, air traffic controllers or surgeons: “Swiss Air flight 510, make a hard left now please, there’s a Luftan…. Oops. Too late. Oh well, never mind.” Equally, it would be a huge relief for stressed and overworked NHS staff, who under the same relaxed and pressure-free work environment of the weather forecaster, would quickly reduce NHS waiting lists to zero. NHS flyers and press releases could boast five-minute operations as a sure way to quickly fix that particularly nasty spinal chord damage or the various types of cancerous growths currently available on the market. You never know, we may yet live to see this more relaxed modern approach to healthcare implemented when David Cameron finally ascends to the job towards which the bucolic ‘dark forces’ of this country appear to be shepherding him. 

Did the weather forecasters not tell us, long-suffering denizens of these waterlogged isles, that in 2007 we were in for the hottest summer since records began? Who compensates the cautious inhabitant of some arid land who, based on those reports, chose this of all summers for his or her holiday of a lifetime in the United Kingdom? And who compensates those who on watching Michael Fish’s frankly patronising dismissal of an eye-witness who called the weather centre to report a hurricane heading across La Manche straight for Britain, decided that a picnic in the woods would indeed be a splendid idea? Did any heads roll then? Did any roll this year? With none of the accountability that most other professionals must face, their careers must be one long idyll of practical jokes, and impersonations of Ian McCaskill, with the hardest decision of the day being whether to have a BLT or prawn mayonnaise sandwich for lunch or which horse to back for the 2.15 at Ludlow. Oh how they must sleep soundly at night. 

I say enough is enough. Let us take to the streets in protest, this time not wielding brightly coloured and pithy protesting messages that demand these malevolent pranksters be relegated to a status similar to that enjoyed by astrologers or healers, but armed with this year’s as yet unused cricket bats and shiny gardening implements, and put an end to the weather forecaster’s reign of tyranny. Let us place them in hard labour camps, picking watery strawberries or pumping out water from flooded towns. 

And you, sir, who watches the weather forecast with a box of Kleenex and a tub of hand cream nearby; or you madam, who settles down to watch the forecast by plugging in a vibrator so powerful that it causes the lights in your house to dim – don’t be discouraged: we shall spare those weather presenters who inhabit your fantasies and give them starring roles in porno films instead. Just imagine: Helen Willets and John Ketley in Man Rain or Francis Wilson and Sian Lloyd in 12 Inches Deep. I can hear people collapsing into convulsive fits of orgasmic pleasure even as I type the words. 

Of course I am not suggesting that we blame them for our unremittingly appalling weather. We just need to put the blame for the misery the weather causes us on someone. Just look at it as no different than our blaming foreigners for all the ills that afflict this country based purely on the geographical accident of their birthplace, or shouting obscenities and throwing half-empty beer cans at a passing prison van that is transporting someone on trial for child murder. It is merely something to make us feel better.

Ironically, as I finish typing this cathartic exercise for my weather-weary soul and contemplate what is left of the summer disappearing inside yet another low pressure black cloud, the weather has since shifted and the skies are clear.