The skies are bucketing with a  chill that makes your teeth chatter. Wind strong enough to push you around like a bully in the playground. All in all, you could say that it is one hell of a miserable day. And you’d be completely correct. Not the kind of correct that you are when you point someone in the right direction to the local taxidermist. But the kind of correct you are when you say to somebody this is going to hurt, and you proceed to take a scalpel to their genitals without the use of the modern day miracle – anaesthetic. A little too graphic? I’ll try and tone it down a smidgen.

            This is the exact kind of British weather that causes anyone who has the balls to venture outside to do so with a grimace on their face. The kind of weather that makes an individual assume that it is acceptable to act like they’re behind the wheel of an exotic sports car. The kind of weather that makes a Briton act how they are famous for acting – like an backside that is infested with full blown haemorrhoids.

            It is just an excuse at the end of the day. People look out of their double glazed windows and instantly complain. Reacting to the gloom and doom outdoors with a mirrored effect in their minds. But for God’s sake, you’d think that they’d be used to it by now. Even prisoners languishing in maximum security cells with only an hours daylight daily manage to see the silver lining in their lives. They get down the gym and turn into an army of Mr. Universe’s. But would the British public at large think of adopting a sunny disposition with it isn’t outside? I wouldn’t bet my house on it. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t bet the lint that fills up my belly button on it. But that’s just me.

            Though there is one guy I know who defies convention without even breaking stride. He is an English born Briton. Brought up in the heart of Walthamstow, East London. Killian Moss is his name. He is one man that can look in the face of the devil in the depths of hell and ask him if he’d like a cool damp towel, because it’s awfully hot down here.

Killian wakes one morning, same as he does most mornings. Early. Around five to be more exact. Why? Because he has to organise the breakfast for the family before he departs for work. He showers quickly, humming the theme tune to his favourite program, Big Brother, dresses and is in the kitchen by six with a cloud of tasty aroma filling the air. Eggs, sausages, mushrooms, tomato, it’s all there. Even a few pancakes, because his thirteen year old won’t eat anything else. By quarter to seven it’s almost all done, and he can hear the symphony of alarm bells ringing upstairs. Snooze buttons are being smashed angrily by sleepy individuals. But they soon relent and drag themselves out of the comfort of their beds and into the coldness of the bathroom. It is a sensation that is unheard of in other hot countries. There, people are literally roasted out of their beds, blankets kicked off in fits of excess perspiration. Alas here in England, just sticking your toe out from underneath the bed covers is sometimes akin to throwing a glass of cold water on your face. You just want it undone.