So, Gentle Readers, the summer is finally upon us! Yay!
As we go about our merry seasonal frivolities, frolicking in the sunshine, fostering nascent melanomas and quaffing enormous amounts of alcohol, there are some aspects of this delightful time of the year to bear in mind. You might disagree with my interpretation of some of them, but there we go. In other words, I don’t give a rats’ ass if you do and if you don’t, we’ve already begun to get along splendidly…
Now for some obscure reason, us blokes (me excepted), as soon as the Big Yellow Ball appears in the sky, have an irresistible urge to strip and share the wonders of their bodies with all and sundry. No one has any choice about it, but they do, and let’s face it, George Clooney they are not. Ever.
Ok, it’s warm, fair enough, but there are very few excuses for removing clothing (normally, a shirt) as your arm hasn’t been suddenly amputated (requiring the use of a tourniquet), and you haven’t fallen from several hundred feet (requiring a DIY parachute). However, acceptable ones do include a bee swarm suddenly taking residence inside said shirt, and Graham “Mine’s a pint of Olde Bishops’ Scrotum, please” inadvertently setting his chest rug alight at the barbecue and needing to be put out.
And whilst we’re on the subject of exposed flesh, summer is also the time where the sheer, unadulterated beauty of the female form comes to the fore. I like to think that I am a reasonably normal specimen of the species male, with a dirty mac nowhere in sight or mind. But I do think though, that a lazy summer afternoon, watching the world (and la bonne femmes) go by with a chilled Chablis is perfect. And perfectly innocent.
Unfortunately, some more idiotic examples of manhood (allegedly) choose to behave otherwise, acting as if they had never seen bare skin on another human being before. So, if you are one of these, STOP IT NOW. You’re a fat, sweaty weirdo, so put your rags back on and piss off.
And a glorious oasis in summer is The Great British Beer Garden. Not the contrived efforts found in big city chain pubs where most are just a slabbed-over area with a potted dead palm and a round of drinks costs circa £800, but your honest-to-god garden, with grass, roses and hollyhocks, seating and comatose pub dogs snoring away by the door. And a cheery gaffer partnered a friendly busty barmaid named Doris.
But as ever, there’s always something to spoil the bliss. Frigging wasps. They have no other purpose in life except to sabotage delight, angrily buzzing around you like bugs on meth. I swear upon my soul that they are servants of evil, uncaring, and totally intent on aiding in the destruction of mankind. They will fly off with your kids, and the only way to rid yourself of the little bastards is to set fire to everything followed by the detonation of a limited yield nuclear device.
But let’s not dwell on the downside of life! Just in your own way, enjoy this (to me), the best time of the year. After all, you’ll be in good company:
‘Hey! It’s summer! Be free and happy and danceful and uninhibited and now-y!’