24 hours of sun

The sun shone this weekend.

It was like Jesus had arrived, sprinkled the nation with gold dust, and then made everyone drink from a chalice of pure MDMA.

It was a bank holiday yesterday, so Sunday was the new Saturday, and so we took off most of our clothes and lay, legs astride on a blanket on the common All. Day. Long.

We illegally braiied meat on one of those disposable barbeque thingies, drank pinot grigio and lapped up the sun like a right bunch of motherstickers.

It was amazing.

And now it's raining and I want to leave again.

 Illegal braaing. Stealth-mode. The cops actually come over and fine you if they see you braaing. I thought we should fucking do it anyway and apologise later.

This is Britain.

Above is a dude who has come back from an all night trance party at The Church, bought himself a McDonald's family feast, peeled down his lycra Union Jack onesie, to reveal a white chest that he wishes to expose to some UV, while passing out mid-meal, leaving discarded drink to the side and the offending aforementioned bag between his legs, which are slightly a-kimbo.

Now, he might not have actually been at The Church, but there's a 99.9% sure-as-fuck speculative chance that he was.

That, in a nutshell, is the average day/night for a Caucasian male living in Clapham. In case you wanted a lesson in twentysomething British debauchery.

 More home-made beef burgers on the disposable barbeque. What good, sunny days are made of.

 Annnd he's up.

New Zara sandals I bought for Borneo and Malta. Make an unforseen and rare debut trip out onto the British streets and in the park.

Just 24 hours of sheer, beautiful, uninterrupted natural sunlight, and everything for that one day, is absolutely amazing.