Weather Report.
Say what you like about singer-songwriter Albert Hammond, but that guy knew what he was talking about when he warbled, “It never rains in Southern California. It pours, Man it pours.” Because here in the Valley, over the past week or so, it’s been like taking part in Nature’s Ice Bucket challenge with some massive vat of water being dumped on us from the sky.
It’s been a bit overwhelming, so it’s set me wondering if maybe I’ve been living in The Valley too long. Because I grew up in the rain.
But the other day I even caught myself saying to Mark that maybe he shouldn’t be out driving in the rain - which, in my defense, is less about the weather and more about LA drivers. (It is the Angelino way of thinking that when it rains and the roads are flooding, you should drive faster so that you can get home quicker, and I wish that I was joking.) Anyway, Mark looked at me like I’d lost my marbles, and remarked that if people didn’t drive in the rain back in the old country, then nobody would ever go out.
And of course he’s right.
If Albert Hammond had grown up in Scotland, that song would have been more like, “I’ve no idea about the rain in California, but in North Lanarkshire, Ayrshire and Argyll in November, it’s pishing down.” Because one November day in Scotland looks pretty much like another: It gets dark early, it's cold, and there will be rain. It’s always the same. Though people still talk about how terrible it is when they meet anyway.
When I was young, I thought it was daft that people would feel he need to talk about the weather. Then, as I got older, I understood that often the reason they do is because the alternative topics of conversation would be too tricky or too painful.
Anyway, the weather does have a lot to answer for. Periodically - as in times of heavy rain - I will announce my theory that the downfall of humanity began when weather stopped being delivered to us by actual meteorologists, but instead by ‘weather personalities’. No more would we learn about the state of the atmosphere from wee strange guys in crumpled tweed jackets who spent their lives analyzing data in labs, instead communicating the state of play was a job that required smart clothing, big boobs, and perfect hair. (And that’s not just the women.)
And it’s not that I have a problem with men with perfect hair, but the idea that the quality of information we are fed is less important than the attractiveness of the individual delivering that information, pisses me off mightily. Surely wisdom has to be of more value than sexiness? In fact, isn’t wisdom sexiness?
Anyway, when I bring this up with Mark, he always suggests the problem really started with Michael Fish, who was the weatherman on the BBC when Mr Tweddle and I were both teenagers.
Michael Fish was a proper learned meteorologist. And on the scale of physical attractiveness, well, if you find yourself aroused by wee middle-aged guys who search through charity shops for a bargain sweater vest, then yes, you might have found him physically sexy. But he did know his meteorological stuff. He had knowledge. But then, you see, one day he made a big mistake.
On October 15th 1987 during his nightly weather report, Mr Fish said, "Earlier on today, apparently, a woman rang the BBC and said she heard there was a hurricane on the way. Well, if you're watching, don't worry, there isn't!" In the following hours, The Great Storm of 1987 hit the south of England (and by the way, there was nothing great about it). It was the worst weather to hit the area for three centuries, causing record damage and taking 18 lives.
Ouchy. As a result, the term “The Michael Fish Effect” was coined. Nobody ever wanted to make the same mistake. So from then on, British weather forecasters preferred to predict “the worst-case scenario” rather than come a cropper.
I suppose it was inevitable that before long, news organizations joined in favoring the ‘worst case scenario.” And before you know it, every news bulletin becomes a barrage of “holy fuck and now what?”
Even with my disdain for weather personalities, nowadays at the end of the news, it’s almost a relief to have some squeaky-clean coiffured individual telling us to expect a band of low pressure followed by a warm front.
Also, I don't want to slag weather personality off as a job. I've definitely done worse.
I once did a TV commercial for a now-defunct grocery chain called Gateway. The ad was filmed in one of their flagship stores, where paid actors posing as customers would rap about the bargains they had found. That’s right, I said rap. And if you were wondering if it really could have been as bad as it sounds, I can reassuringly inform you it was worse.
In my not very hip-hop Scottish accent, I’m ashamed to admit I rapped, “Gateway have slashed over 500 prices from Pepsi Cola to packed cheese slices.”
And then, because the clients loved my Scottish rapping-non-rapping so much, they gave me another line, which was: “So get yourself down here as fast as you can. For 59 pence, get some British smoked ham.”
I admit it. I did that. For money. I also admit that even still, decades later, I can suddenly find myself blushing, mortified.
I guess even people as smart as Michael Fish make mistakes. We’re each of us prone to the odd bad decision. The thing to remind yourself, though, is how low can you go?
Apparently pretty low, it seems.
Actual qualified journalist, Megyn Kelly ( or Megyn R Kelly as she's now known) talked on the news this week about how a friend of hers was close to Epstein. (Evidently she’s not a great picker of friends.) Anyway, this friend had assured her that Epstein really wasn’t a pedophile because he just liked to have sex with 15-year-old girls. Her point was that that’s not so bad really. Because 15 is not so very young. With her coiffed hair, and her shiny white teeth, and her perfect skin, looking almost completely human, that was the point she wanted to make.
Like I say, I have done some terrible jobs in my time and made some horrendous mistakes. But there’s nothing like watching a fully grown woman, justifying the ugly groping from dribbling, perverted, power-crazed fucktards on a succession of sex trafficked teenagers, to make rapping very badly in a Scottish accent for a poor quality grocery store, feel like quite a decent job indeed. When it comes to how low will we go for money, for some, the answer clearly is very low indeed.
And I’d like to say she is the exception rather than the rule, but the level of normalizing the abnormal right now is overwhelming. At times, I find myself almost primal in my rage. And it is as difficult to stay sane at the moment as it is to stay dry in a rainstorm.
When I was younger, I used to laugh about how people talked so much about the weather. When I got older, I understood it was because the alternative topics were too tricky, or too painful to discuss.
So let me tell you about the crazy drivers in LA, or how back in the old country, we have loads of different words to describe different types of rain.
Or I could just tell you that the weather has been crazy of late. Really crazy. And I so can't wait for this particular fucking season to end.
XO
PS: If you click on the heart emoji to like this post, the sun will come out faster. That’s a total lie obviously, but it wont half do wonders for my algorithm.
Volume 3 is out now!!
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P. P. S: If you enjoy talking/listening/stories/ random facts, come and join me and Mr Tweddle at Fish and Bear. For details and booking go to Fishandbear.net
