God The Scapegoat

Returning from a holiday where the blazing sun was melting and terraforming the pavement underfoot, it was a bizarre feeling to be told that our flight was delayed because Heathrow’s main runaway was in danger of becoming riverbed to a shoal of marine animals. Very well, I’m embellishing a little, but to be informed of such apocalyptic flooding in 35 degree heat just didn’t feel quite right.

In 1953, meteorologists were consulted at length by those orchestrating the coronation of Elizabeth II. The general consensus was that, from previous meticulous record-keeping and that year’s trends, 2nd June was the best time for the big day. Let’s just say that it was a good job Lizzy’s crowning was an indoor event.

For those not familiar with the British fixation with weather, I only hope you can understand that our temperate climate is prone to throw up the most dramatic and bizarre weather possible. Sure, folks across the pond will report of hailstones in Maryland, mudslides in San Francisco and a dozen tornadoes in between. But you know what to expect there. As folk who are frankly unsure what the weather’s going to hurl down at us, we feel the need to comment on it ad nauseum.

This year, flooding on the business end of the River Severn and the western area of the Thames has had anyone clutching a microphone with cameraman in tow scrambling for soundbites of despair from the poor folks whose homes have just been wrecked. Some reporters even got so close to the water it seemed as though one quick plunge and they’d be ably breast-stroking their way to their next story.

Still, far be it from me to go off and lambaste the media. This article is all about blamelessness.

Another fixation in this country is to always find blame for someone or something when it all goes to pot. The best example of our fascination for a hate figure is every other summer, when English national football team are either dumped out of the European Championships under dubious circumstances, or dumped out of the World Cup under utterly diabolical circumstances. Be it a crucial refereeing blunder, a bolus of players unable to handle the pressure of a penalty shootout or a striker getting himself needlessly sent off for stamping on opposition testicles, we’ve got the lot.

Still, this year there’s no major football, so we’ve got something else to find blame for. Problem is, when its Acts of God we’re talking about, how can we shake our fists at the Almighty? Noah certainly didn’t, he just nodded politely and built the Ark. I don’t mean to get tangled up in to a pseudo-religious rant, it’s just rather humorous to observe so many people getting extremely agitated, trying to blame the lack of the Azores High squarely on the shoulders of any politician who dares to don a pair of Wellingtons.

So who’s the big winner? Well our new PM must be pretty pleased with himself – his first national crisis he could do nothing to prevent. David Cameron’s been caught out in Africa, rather unfortunate timing with Commons currently in recess. Meanwhile, the biggest winner has to be August – never has this month when we usually pin our hopes on good weather carried so much expectation. As I post article this with just minutes of July left, it’s safe to say optimism never felt so good.