The Summer Arrives, A Guide on how to fit in.

What is it with Summer in this country? It gets nice and hot and then, out of no where, utter twats arrive in hordes.

Here in South London, where this part of the all powerful B and D lives, this can reach epidemic proportions. The Army is called in as extra cover for the Police and special anti-wanker patrols are sent out to enforce a strict no-pricks-allowed policy. In my dreams.

They are everywhere.

Blokes, it seems, suddenly become overwhelmed with a need to remove their socks and wear white shoes. Yellow suddenly becomes this must have colour whether it is in fashion or not. And, of course, you simply must, must, must shave your head to within a nanometre of your cranium. Innit.

The girls aren’t much better. It’s like a special part of their brain shouts ‘Tan Lines!!!’ and, before you know it, belts for skirts and bikini tops are all the rage. Because you can’t risk a tan line in the UK when it is 22 degrees.

Don’t even get me started on fucking wedges. Clearly produced in the millions in 1987 and the company has been trying to shift them ever since. How the fuck can the same piece of shit be ‘this season’s must have’ every bloody year!

I digress. Here is a guide to being in South London in the ‘Summer’:

Tops must be off if at all possible. And you must also become as loud and obnoxious as possible at all times, even more so when you are doing an all day bender on a Tuesday. This must be undertaken with Magners or some other sweet fizzy shite that would be nice if it weren’t a more grown up version of the pink alcopops found in the park. This must also be drunk in copious amounts and the bottles must never be collected. If they are you are perfectly entitled to try and molest the barmaid, she wants it really.

Football becomes even more important, even though the season is over and so you must travel around in a pack of at least eleven at all times. Your idol is Fat Franky Lumpard because, despite being a wanker and playing for the most hated team on Earth, you think he is smashing cos he is a footballer and he pulls birds. He is also called Frank, like you and so fits in with your mates George, Charlie, Fred, Howard and Marcus.

Then we have this really odd thing of convertible expensive cars suddenly appearing with a fucking 18 year old twat driving it playing house at full volume. This may well be a technique that is employed so that normal people think ‘What the fuck is that 18 year old twat doing driving a 20 grand convertible Merc?’. A shirt may not be worn when driving. This is important.

The music and the car simply serve to attract people, as does the yellow shirt and the fifteen dickheads in the back seat all shouting oioi at every possible moment.

Because Summer is the mating season. It’s hot, so it’s like Magalouf and therefore it is time to get ‘well luvved up’ (”Marcus have you seen Frank?”, “Nah geezer, he’s well luvved up”) with some slag called Shaznay. Of course, by luvved up I mean screaming at each other, then groping each other in public. Then screaming at each other. This may carry on for some years and may involve children also screaming. They will be called Freddy and Danny.

Then the financial meltdown will begin. It may already have begun depending on whether the Merc was Daddy’s or not and you are simply a posh prick trying to be common. That is the definition of a cunt, look it up.

If not, this means that credit must be gained because at the end of the day, you work in Primark or are a part of the bizarre new lower middle management grade that graces shops and high street banks and is populated entirely by 18-23 year-olds. Or you may just do data entry or work in a call centre.

Either way, you don’t earn anywhere enough to pay the £400 a month finance on the car and the £50 a night drinking habit, or the £100 a day coke habit you now have in a vain bid to stay awake and be cool. That doesn’t include the van loads of Lyle and Scott polo shirts and Gucci shorts that you will need, or the few Stone Island jumpers you will require for when it gets a bit nippy. Please don’t be tempted to upgrade the paste and water earring for an actual diamond.

You must love garage even though it is quite clearly fucking shit and if you had any balls you would be into a harder form of dance music or something that involves musical talent. This must be played on your phone, car and stereo at all times at full volume. Sing along if you like, it makes it even more annoying and proves that, yes, you are a tone-deaf moron.

Then, finally, you must ‘discover’ a nice pub that is frequented by normal people who have been going there for years, since they were your age in fact, because it has always been known as the really nice Summer pub with the big Common in front to sit on and chill out. It’s really nice, bit pricey, but really nice.

Until you get there you selfish wanker, because now the toilets are no covered in coke, the Police are threatening closure and people can’t sit and have a laugh and a drink with their mates because you and your football team are staring everybody out and shout oioi. And all of a sudden the place only sells fucking Magners.

Summer seems to last from April through to October these days. Don’t you just love it?