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    While for some the first sight of a bright-blue sky signals an instant transformation to human solar panel, pointing completely unprepared flesh at the sun while identically coloured pork chipolatas sizzle away on a nearby barbecue, some of us become irrationally irritated by heat. Even when we attempt to be mellow about it, something pierces the bonhomie we are trying to cultivate within – a middle-aged man on a four-stroke motorbike throbbing down an A-road like an Avro Lancaster bomber, or the appearance of a legion of wasps, between-the-eyes-flies and infuriating insects of every other stripe. While others attempt a “Mediterranean” approach, according to a template based on a half-remembered Sophia Loren movie, all I see is the sudden appearance of convertibles touring the more affluent areas of the country while adolescent boys cry “wanker” in their wakes. Likewise, the spectre of cafe diners going alfresco in the slipstreams of bus lanes, while parks and gardens fill with seasonal alcoholics, leaves me cold. If only it did leave me cold, because the heat, dear God, the heat – doesn’t that really get on everyone’s nerves?

    Why I hate summer (and you should too)

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