Britain, Britain, Britain: Home of Churchill, Nelson, the Industrial Revolution, the winning team of the 1966 World Cup. Take a look on the back of a pound coin and what do you see? That’s right, a lion, rearing up to rend his enemies asunder.
(And also a unicorn, which is basically just a pointy horse. I don’t know what to do with that.)
And yet there’s something about our national character that falls apart when it snows. I mean, it’s not like we’re in the middle of the Sahara, where a few inches of snow would probably be an End Of The World portent. We’re a damp wet island where it snows once a year. There’s no excuse for this mass hysteria.
Okay, I’m aware this is a grumpy old man rant, but with good reason – I’ve just driven 40 miles through Snowmageddon and the weather wasn’t a problem. The real problem? Other people.
I mean, it’s wet, it’s dusk, but some drivers still seem to think that headlights give you hemorrhoids. Still, at least they compensate by driving up your exhaust pipe. You can’t help but see them when they obviously want to get intimate with the stuff in your boot. Letting the concept of stopping distances enter their lives would be nice.
And then there’s the guy who starting hitting his horn because, shock horror, I gave way to someone on my right at a roundabout. I appreciate I might have been able to sneak in, traversing a wet, snowy road as I did so; I’m also aware that there are things called ‘multi-car pile-ups’, which are very bad and take up the valuable time of the emergency services.
And don’t get me started on pedestrians. Especially the one wearing a big woolly hat and a tracksuit. This is the reason the UK is number one in Europe for people getting frozen alive in freak glaciers and defrosted in the future.
But I’m home safe and the central heating is on and no-one’s going to put me in hospital now.
Unless they drive into my living room whilst tailgating my house…