(Power ballad face.)
Did I ever tell you how much I absolutely love Air Supply?
The band and the reference to being able to breathe.
So it's been raining for like a 100 days on end or something. It really is beyond a joke now. You know it's gone beyond a joke when your British countrymen actually stop talking about it. Brits continuously talk about three things, unless there's some sort of cataclysmic and dire circumstance that prevents them from doing so.
1) weather and the endlessly futile optimistic hope that it will, one day, be sunny here
2) how they got from A to B, and the variations that occurred that could've thwarted their time by three seconds
3) politics. And/or pies. Or, like recently, pies fused with politics.
When they stop talking about it, you know it's bad times. We are in a drought, (oh yes, because it hasn't rained enough?); and it hasn't stopped pissing from the sky for weeks.
The general attitude around here, is one of true British nationalism: it is what it is. It's not going to change. Build an Ark. Get on with things. It's raining; we still have pubs. And each other.
Kind of like what they said during The Blitz. With a cheery, "Ah well. We're in a funny old place aren't we. It is what it is ey?"
Well they've stopped even doing that. I've noticed. They're now just plain ignoring what is happening outside. There's a fatalistic sort of silence when it comes to general weather commentary around me, and I am finding this very unsettling. British people bond by gathering together for a good moan.
And now? They are solely focusing on football scores, not a word about the climatic mess outside.
No fuckers. It isn't what it is. This is disturbing, and to be frank, we're probably all going to die.
No one believes me. No one believes me when I say that this much Vitamin D deprivation is bordering on lethal.
So. I do what any self-respecting girl born in the 80s Power Ballad era would do. I stuff my eras full of Air Supply's Greatest Hits.
It's atrocious. But then, the sky is basically caving in on itself. Never has a time been more apt for a whiny, Australian, big-haired wank stain of a band - band or movement? - to dominate my ear drums.