Tag Archives: Weather

Joke 891

31 Aug

Today’s subject matter was inspired by KiwiDutch, who blogged about her visit to the UK.

From Just For Fun

You’re hiking around on Hampstead Heath (a park near London) at the end of a long sunny day.

You run across the ghosts of Sir Winston Churchill, Lord Baden Powell, and Sir Edmund Hillary.  Each gives you different directions to the nearest tube stop.

Who do you think is lying?

Answer: Your story teller, for there is no such thing as a completely sunny day in England.

From The Daily Jester

 

Joke 619

2 Dec

Thanks to Granny1947 for this one.

English: A joke in Grateley Crescent Note the ...

A joke in Grateley Crescent Note the car with snow apparently covering it. No-one else’s car looked like this: I suspect it was a wind-up. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

*

Since the snow came, all the Hub has done is look through the window.

If it gets any worse, I’ll have to let him in.

*

*

Joke 555

29 Sep
Coconut Weather Station - Hawaiian Humor

Coconut Weather Station – Hawaiian Humor (Photo credit: IronRodArt – Royce Bair (NightScapes on Thursdays))

From weatherimages.org.

Although he was a qualified meteorologist, Hopkins ran up a terrible record of forecasting for the TV news program.  He became something of a local joke when a newspaper began keeping a record of his predictions and showed that he’d been wrong almost three hundred times in a single year.  That kind of notoriety was enough to get him fired.

He moved to another part of the country and applied for a similar job.  The job application called for the reason for leaving his previous position.

Hopkins wrote, “The climate didn’t agree with me.”

At Least the Weathers Not as Shit as Yesterday...

Goswell Road Coffee, Clerkenwell, London, UK (Photo credit: gruntzooki)

Joke 258

7 Dec

The Michaels family owned a small farm in Canada, just yards away from the North Dakota border.  Their land had been the subject of a minor dispute between the United States and Canada for generations.  Mrs. Michaels, who had just celebrated her ninetieth birthday, lived on the farm with her son and three grandchildren.

One day, her son came into her room holding a letter.  “I just got some news, Mom,” he said.  “The government has come to an agreement with the people in Washington. They’ve decided that our land is really part of the United States.  We have the right to approve or disapprove of the agreement. What do you think?”

“What do I think?” his mother said.  “Jump at it! Call them right now and tell them we accept! I don’t think I could stand another one of those Canadian winters!”

I Don’t Care What The Weatherman Says

25 Aug
Hurricane

If you controlled the weather, what would it be like outside today?

One of the things I’ve always loved about Britain is the changing seasons.  I like to see blossom on the trees in spring; sunshine in summer; I enjoy kicking leaves in autumn; sitting inside not freezing my butt off in winter.

It’s the height of summer here now, so it’s raining.  I’d like it to be sunny.  I’d like not to be sitting wrapped in a cardi, hoping it will dry up enough to put out the washing currently draped all over the house.  I’d like to know it’s summer and not just a long winter punctuated with one hot day (the day I choose to cook a roast).

The Hub has the perfect system: sunshine all day; rain in the middle of the night when everyone is in bed.

Spud doesn’t care, so long as he can play football/watch football/hit me with a snowball.

Tory Boy lives in another country, so I can’t ask him.  Actually, it’s not another country; it’s an hour’s drive from here; but it might as well be another country for all the time he takes to call his mother.

*

There’s a hurricane in the Atlantic at the moment.  That’s what I call weather.  None of our British seventeen-types-of-rain-wrong-snow-on-the-line-a-hot-day-whip-off-the-vest-and-frighten-the-children wishy-washiness.

The problem with dramatic weather, however, is that it tends to rather inconvenience people unfortunate enough to live in its path; in fact, it tends to be downright vindictive.  I hope those of my readers affected or likely to be affected by Hurricane Irene are well prepared, and stay safe.  I don’t want a disruption to my blog reading.

For an excellent guide to hurricane preparations, read Nancy’s post on what to do.   There is also a link in my blogroll so you can track hurricanes in your area.

*

All this weather talk reminds me of something I once read in Stephen Pile’s The Book Of Heroic Failures; I can’t recall it exactly, but it was a tv station’s apology for their intermittent weather report:

Whether the weather can be brought to you today depends on the weather, whether we like it or not.

The original quote was much funnier but I can’t find it; I did, however, come across a Penguin worksheet for high school students based on The Book Of Heroic Failures (and the media complains exams are getting easier…!).

Here’s an excerpt from the preamble:

Stephen Pile was born in Lincolnshire in 1949. In 1977, when he was 28 years old, he said, ‘I’m never going to write a book’.  The Book Of Heroic Failures was published two years later […] He therefore failed in his ambition never to write a book.

He and others started the Not Terribly Good Club of Great Britain in 1976, but it was such a success that they closed it down.

Good job he’s not in charge of the weather; all we’d have is rain in summer.

O-oh…

*

*

My Dream Vacation

10 Feb
Photograph of Underbank Hall in Stockport, Eng...

Image via Wikipedia

An all-inclusive hotel.  I don’t care where.  It can be in the middle of Stockport in the middle of winter in the middle of the worst blizzard ever known: if it means no cooking, no cleaning, I’m in.

 

It’s Raining In Stockport, And I’ve Got The Red Eye To Prove It

12 Jan
Reflection in a soap bubble.

Image via Wikipedia

I met a friend at a little café in Stockport for breakfast this morning – £1.60 for tea, and two free slices of toast if you order before ten a.m.  It was worth going out for.  It’s always worth going out for free food.  I won’t mention the outrageous bus fare: £1.60 there, and another £1.60 back, but with no toast thrown in.  That was topped by a thirty-minute wait at a wet bus stop because the traffic was horrendous.

I had my umbrella, of course: what self-respecting Brit woman doesn’t?  Not self-respecting Brit men, though.  British men don’t do umbrellas except in movies with bowler hats.  They prefer to get wet.  They may die of pneumonia brought on by a thorough soaking, but at least they die like men.  Or, to give them their correct title, stupid men.

My umbrella is one of those see-through plastic ones the Queen made popular in the Seventies so that she and the Great Wet British Public could see each other on walkabouts.

(You know, I’ve always considered the Hub with his airline mania to be a real geek, but at least he doesn’t subscribe to ‘Umbrella World’)

My umbrella.  Eye, there’s the rub.  I used it yesterday and left it to dry in the downstairs toilet, propped in a corner under the bottle of liquid soap.  On the way to the bus stop this morning I was pleasantly surprised to see the pounding rain pound pretty soap bubbles off its surface, obviously a result of having a clean family who always wash their hands after a comfort break.  I was just admiring a huge one that sneaked under the brolly with me (bubble, not family; it’s only a small umbrella), when it popped, squirting soap shrapnel into my eye.  I was so startled (and in pain), I stepped back, slipped off the pavement, and into a large and dirty puddle.

How I wish I had a dirty family.  If no-one washed their hands after a comfort break, I would be eye-less-in-gauze, err, and not nursing foot rot.*

*I confess, none of that last line is true.  My real medical problem is hyperboleitis.**

**Defined in Tilly’s Dictionary of Made-Up Words as an inability to blog without exaggerating for comic effect. 

Can you forgive me?***

***You have to; I’m racked with guilt and heaving great wracking sobs as I type.****

****Okay, I’ve got a snotty nose from walking in the rain.*****

*****This could go on forever, you know.

The Cvillean

The adventures of little read writing Hood

Guernsey Evacuees Oral History

An Overlooked British Evacuation

Janie's Place

Welcome to the Great White North....

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