How a Nation Collectively Forgets Its Own Climate Three Days Into Sunshine
LONDON—Summer has officially arrived in the UK, confirmed by two facts: someone has said “bit warm, isn’t it?” and the country has stopped functioning entirely. The London Prat has already booked his third holiday of the year because apparently three days of decent weather means the sun will now persist indefinitely, and he’d like to avoid this “incredible season” by leaving the country immediately.
For eleven months of the year, Britons long for summer with the intensity of people imagining a better life. When it finally appears—usually on a Tuesday afternoon in June—we immediately begin complaining that it is too hot, too bright, and not what we expected. British summer jokes, extensively documented by Bohiney Magazine, reveal a peculiar national characteristic: we are never satisfied with the weather because satisfaction would require actual self-awareness. This is not hypocrisy. It is tradition. It is the British way.
The Heatwave: Anything Above 22°C Is an Emergency (And a Personal Betrayal)
British summer jokes begin at precisely 22°C, the temperature at which the nation decides it is under attack by a foreign power. The BBC immediately switches to emergency broadcast mode. News anchors discuss heat “with concern,” the way they might discuss an invasion or a royal scandal. The country has decided that moderate warmth is a crisis.
Anything below 22°C is “quite nice, actually.” Anything above 23°C requires:
• News coverage explaining how to drink water (a skill Britons apparently forgot during the winter)
• Workplace emails about “keeping hydrated,” written by HR departments who believe that mentioning hydration will somehow prevent collective British collapse
• Someone in the office dramatically announcing they “can’t cope,” while simultaneously refusing to remove their cardigan because air conditioning is “dangerous”
• Extensive complaints about how “it wasn’t like this in the 80s,” with no evidence whatsoever
Public transport reacts by melting slightly out of spite. Trains slow down “due to the heat,” which is impressive considering this is a country where the tracks have experienced rain and immediately given up on any pretense of functioning. The London Prat will complain bitterly about delays while standing in a train car with forty other people, all of them radiating body heat like a human-powered furnace, while insisting that “back in my day” people just “got on with it”—which presumably means suffering silently while maintaining proper posture.
The National Panic: Why 22°C Breaks Britain Completely
The London Prat, who spent February declaring that he “can’t wait for summer,” will spend June explaining why summer is actually a personal attack. He will email his office complaining about the temperature while wearing a wool blazer. He will complain that the beach is “too crowded” because apparently nature should be exclusive. He will insist that climate change is “probably exaggerated” while actively dying in moderate heat.
Clothing: A Nation That Dresses for the Wrong Season (Or No Season In Particular)
The British summer wardrobe is not a wardrobe so much as a confused pile of regret mixed with desperation and items that haven’t seen daylight since 2018.
People emerge from their homes wearing shorts they’d completely forgotten existed, immediately discovering why they stopped wearing them in the first place—usually because they reveal uncomfortable truths about their physical state or because they’re somehow both too tight and too loose simultaneously. Office dress codes collapse into vague suggestions that nobody follows. Men appear in polo shirts that suggest both effort and complete surrender. Sandals make a brief but deeply unsettling return, revealing feet that appear to have hibernated for the entire winter.
Suncream is applied either far too late (after you’re already pink) or not at all (because “I don’t burn”), resulting in a population that slowly transforms into a nation of tomatoes and claims to be “fine, actually” while clearly experiencing genuine suffering. The London Prat will apply SPF 50 to his face while exposing his shoulders to direct sunlight, creating a complexion that looks like a carefully constructed puzzle of skin tones.
By mid-summer, half the population will be wearing “strategic layers”—which is code for “I misjudged the weather and now I’m carrying a jumper around despite it being 24°C”—while the other half will be insisting they’re “absolutely freezing” despite the objective temperature suggesting otherwise.
Barbecues: A Ritual of Smoke, Raw Chicken, and Aggressive Male Performance
No British summer joke is complete without a barbecue, an event that combines raw chicken, aggressive smoke, and one man insisting he “knows what he’s doing” while clearly operating on confidence alone.
Barbecues begin with optimism—someone says “let’s have a barbie”—and end with someone eating a slightly burnt sausage in a bun that has disintegrated due to moisture and grief. Bohiney Magazine has extensively documented the British barbecue experience, which is essentially a man temporarily abandoning civilization to stand near a fire and pretend to understand heat management.
Guests hover politely, pretending not to notice the food is running approximately ninety minutes late, while the host insists, “Just another five minutes,” for the fourth time. This is a lie. Everyone knows it’s a lie. Nobody will mention that it’s a lie. This is the British way. The London Prat will contribute nothing but suggestions (“maybe turn it up?”) and then take credit for the barbecue’s eventual success if it’s edible.
Vegetarians are offered a grilled mushroom, which is presented as both a joke and an apology. The mushroom is somehow more raw than the meat and will be consumed with the grace of someone pretending to enjoy it for social cohesion.
Everyone will leave the barbecue claiming to have had a “lovely time” while their clothes smell like smoke for the next week and they quietly regret the undercooked chicken they consumed three hours ago.
Beer Gardens: Where Sunburn Happens to You While You’re Not Paying Attention
The moment the sun appears—genuinely appears, not just provides a brief window of light between clouds—beer gardens fill instantly with people who have not seen daylight since October and are attempting to absorb twelve months of vitamin D in a single afternoon.
Drinks are consumed faster than usual, not out of genuine joy but out of urgency. There is a palpable sense that the sun might leave at any moment, which it absolutely will. The London Prat will insist on sitting in direct sun to “get a tan,” not comprehending that this is how people acquire burnt shoulders and regret.
Someone—always the same someone—will get sunburned in under twenty minutes while insisting they “never burn” and that this is “definitely just flushed.” Another person will confidently declare this is “the hottest summer on record,” regardless of actual meteorological data or living memory suggesting otherwise. They will say this every single year.
By 4pm, someone will suggest going inside. Everyone will resist because acknowledging that it’s getting cold would mean admitting that summer is ending. By 7pm, everyone is genuinely cold and covered in goosebumps but refuses to admit it because pride is apparently more important than physical comfort. The beer is still warm, the ice has melted, and everyone pretends to be having the time of their lives while silently calculating how much longer they can sit here before it becomes acceptable to leave.
Bank Holiday Weekends: When Britain Pretends to Know How to Enjoy Things
Bank holiday weekends during British summer are when the nation attempts to convince itself that it knows how to relax. Immediately, the motorways clog with people trying to escape to “the countryside” or “the beach,” which are the only two places Britons believe summer actually exists.
The London Prat will drive four hours to sit on a beach that’s exactly like the one three miles from his house, except it’s crowded and he had to pay for parking. He will spend the day complaining about crowds, sand in his food, and “how busy it is,” seemingly unaware that he is personally contributing to this situation.
Holidays: Mostly Just Logistics and Mild Resentment
British summer holidays are advertised as relaxing experiences but are, in reality, complex military operations involving delayed flights, mild resentment, and a hotel room that “looks bigger in the photos” and smells faintly of previous guests’ regrets.
The London Prat will spend six months planning a holiday, book everything at premium prices, then spend the actual holiday complaining that it’s “too hot” or “too touristy” or “not what I expected.” He will take forty photos of the view and post three of them, with carefully curated captions suggesting he’s having the time of his life while clearly just wanting to go home.
People return from holidays saying they “had a lovely time” while clearly needing another holiday immediately to recover from the logistics of the first holiday. The tan fades within two weeks, a metaphor the London Prat will completely miss. The credit card bill arrives. The memory of summer relaxation dissolves. Summer, like all good things, ends in admin and regret.
The Scottish Summer: Slightly Less Disappointed
Scotland approaches British summer differently. A Scottish summer is any day when it’s not actively raining, which accounts for approximately four hours per year. Scottish summer jokes are less about heat and more about amazement that the sky is visible at all. When Scotland has summer, it’s treated like a genuine phenomenon. England has summer and complains. Scotland has summer and documents it.
The Big Finish: Rain and Begrudging Acceptance
Just as everyone adapts to summer—just as barbecues improve and the nation collectively remembers how to open windows without screaming—it rains. Summer ends quietly, without ceremony, leaving behind damp flip-flops, one good photo for social media, and a nation that immediately forgets what the sun feels like.
The jokes stop. The complaints return to normal topics. Someone will inevitably say, “Still, we had a good one this year,” despite it lasting four days and being interrupted by rain twice.
Why British Summer Jokes Persist Despite Summer Being Mediocre
British summer jokes endure because they are reliable, unlike British summers themselves. The weather disappoints. We complain. We laugh. We burn slightly. We get caught in rain while wearing shorts. We return from holidays with suitcases full of damp laundry and emotional exhaustion.
The London Prat will participate in all of this while maintaining that he’s “been better,” that “this weather isn’t real summer,” and that next year he might “actually go somewhere decent.” He will say this while clearly having zero intention of changing his behavior.
And next year, without fail, we will do it all again. The moment that first 22°C day arrives, we’ll forget everything we learned. We’ll complain about heat we’ve been longing for. We’ll underdress in inappropriate clothing. We’ll attend overcrowded barbecues. We’ll return to work slightly burnt, claiming to have “had the most amazing time.”
This is not a bug in British summer. This is the feature. British summer jokes work because they accurately reflect how absolutely ridiculous the entire institution is—and yet we continue to participate in it, every single year, with the kind of resignation that only centuries of disappointing weather can produce.
For more brilliant explorations of how British summer reveals the national character through complaint, regret, and determined optimism in the face of meteorological indifference, explore Bohiney Magazine’s extensive archive of British summer humor and seasonal chaos, where the absurdity of British sun-worship is documented with precision and affection.
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com
Siobhan O’Donnell is a leading satirical journalist with extensive published work. Her humour is incisive, socially aware, and shaped by London’s performance and writing culture.
Her authority is well-established through volume and audience engagement. Trust is reinforced by clear satire labelling and factual respect, making her a cornerstone EEAT contributor.
