Refried Neurons

There is global warming. There isn’t global warming.

The world seems to be divided on the subject. Those in love with Mr Trump will tell you it’s all bollocks, and even if there is such a thing — wtf is your problem? You get a better tan now, and since they no longer have to buy a Tesla (that short-lived romance is over), they’re even happier they can make it a bit warmer.

Those on the left will tell you we shall all die — a hot and miserable death. We’re all gonna burn right after getting skin cancer and dying from a lack of pollinators.

Thing is, I’m not so sure it’s all bullshit. And even the ever-sceptical Jeremy Clarkson doesn’t seem too sure anymore either.

It’s mid-July 2025, and whether you live in this country or not, when someone mentions a British summer, you probably picture: rain. Then clouds. Then more rain. Surprisingly, this year we’ve had maybe one day of rain in the last four weeks. And by “day” I mean more like two hours.

It’s been bloody boiling — 30 degrees almost every single day.

One can say there’s no pleasing us: if it’s raining, it’s bad; if it’s sunny, it’s bad. Don’t get me wrong, I’m soaking it in — most of the time — as long as I can be outside in the shade or preferably at the beach. It’s definitely less enjoyable when your flat is sitting at 29 degrees and you’re trying to sleep.

AC? Forget it. I’m not paying thousands, or blocking half of my already tiny balcony with a giant plastic box, just for a couple days of heat.

But that’s the thing. It’s not a couple days anymore. It’s weeks. And it’s not 25°C — it’s 30 and up. Sure, I’m talking about London, not the coast. But London is just a giant slab of concrete and tarmac that holds heat like a bastard. It’s easily six degrees hotter than the nearest bit of countryside.

I moved here 11 years ago, and summers back then weren’t this sunny.

Saying that, I’ll never forget the summer of 2022 and that idiotic lunchtime walk along the A40 to McDonald’s in 40°C. To this day I don’t know what the hell possessed me. Well, actually I do — he was called Ryan, and when he suggested it from the comfort of our air-conditioned office, it seemed like a brilliant idea.

Five minutes later, halfway to Maccies, I genuinely thought I’d suffer a stroke, melt, and burst into flames at the same time.

How the hell do people in Australia or the Sahara do it? I know how tourists in Egypt cope in mid-summer — they spend half their holidays lying on bathroom tiles under the AC.

To survive the heat, I’ve done two countryside escapes.

One week, after trying to brave 33 degrees inside my flat all weekend, I gave up caring what my just-landed teenage guests wanted to do. I packed them, the tent, and a bunch of cold drinks into the car and headed off to show them some glorious English countryside. Or more honestly — to spend time somewhere that had air con (my car), instead of being crammed into a 50°C tube, sniffing strangers’ sweaty armpits.

I love camping. I know some people don’t get it — how anyone prefers sleeping on the ground over a hotel bed is beyond them. But even if I didn’t like it, I was already considering pitching a tent in our underground parking lot because it’s nice and cool down there. I just don’t fancy our foxes as roommates. So, compared to that, a tent with an ocean view is a bloody dream.

Stop One: Corfe Castle Village

Cute as a button. Why did I take them there? Well: 1) There’s a car charger in the car park. 2) There’s a decent walk around the north side of the castle with a great view. 3) They asked for chocolate-box villages.

For once, plugging in was easy, and we headed off for a walk. After all, one needs to earn their pint.

It was hot. I’d planned a much longer hike, but after getting to the top of the first hill and taking in the view of the ruins, I decided that was enough. Also, the pub wasn’t going to wait for us forever. I didn’t see the point in paying to enter the castle — or whatever’s left of it. Some people go nuts for piles of old stones, but I can’t get excited about paying £20 to see the same rubble you can see from the outside.

So we went to the pub. It was cool inside  and when the bartender suggested we could sit in the garden to “enjoy the sun,” I nearly told him he’d lost his fucking mind. Instead, I politely said a nice corner by the bar suited me just fine

After cooling off, I made the teenagers walk around the village to admire the cottages. First surprise of the trip: no reaction. I’ve taken loads of people there before — everyone is usually delighted by the cute doors and tiny windows. These two? Nothing.

It continued like that the whole trip.

We went to Lulworth Cove. Nothing. Durdle Door? Nothing — apart from them enjoying the water. Views? Nah. They were more shocked by the herds of Hindu families pushing buggies up steep dirt tracks, carrying massive pots of (probably delicious) biryani.

To be fair, I was mostly enjoying the cold water too — I’ve been here, fuck knows how many times. On the way back we were almost pushed off a cliff by cows. Wild animals. You can’t trust them. OK, fine, the cows were harmless. But I have been made to turn around by a bunch of bulls before, so I try to keep my distance.

We made a detour to Lidl before heading to the campsite. I haven’t been in a UK Lidl in years — not because it’s German, but because there isn’t one near me. We wanted to make Ploughman’s for dinner. Disaster. Lidl clearly doesn’t know how to do British anything. Even the crisps were shit. Salt and vinegar? No vinegar. Barely any salt. Cheddar? No idea what it was, but it wasn’t cheddar. Only thing that tasted like it should was Thatchers.

As with most campsites, once it gets dark, you go to bed. No lights except for your phone. And then the sun wakes you at 6am whether you like it or not.

At 2am, the teenagers were up. They couldn’t sleep. I told them to fuck off to the playground and kill time there if they didn’t want to enjoy the only cool hours of the day. But they’d left their phones in the car and suddenly wanted to go walk the coastline.

In the middle of the night.

Even if I trusted them (which I didn’t), I couldn’t be arsed to explain to their parents and the police why they’d fallen off a cliff. Especially not after spending two days trying to make them appreciate Corfe bloody Castle.

Also, our lovely BMW has what they call a “safety feature” — it beeps and flashes like a disco ball every time you open or close it. Who the fuck designs this shit? They thought it’d be great if the door opened just by pulling the handle. So now you can’t even check if it’s locked — pulling the handle opens it. It also folds the mirrors when locked. So if your mirrors are out, it’s unlocked. Great for thieves.

One afternoon we came back from a walk to find someone going through our boot. Why? Because we forgot to lock it, and thanks to the genius engineers at BMW, there’s a fuck-off bright dashboard that glows as long as the car is open.

So no — I did not give the teenagers the keys. And I told them that if they woke me before 8am, they were getting a bus home.

Next day we walked to a nearby town for breakfast. Shock: it was cheaper than in Poland.

Right next to it was an incredible Art Deco hotel, slowly crumbling into disrepair — probably one of the best examples of that stunning architectural style I’ve ever laid eyes on.

At noon we picked up the car and headed for the Beaulieu Motor Museum. I’d been told they love cars — so I was buzzing. Finally, something they’d enjoy.

Ha. Nope.

They walked around the whole thing in under an hour. “We thought it’d be bigger.” ARE YOU KIDDING? It’s the second biggest motorsport museum in Europe!

With nothing else planned, we drove to Windsor. Surely the world’s most famous royal residence would impress them?

Nope. Five minutes in: “We’re hungry.” Off to pizza again. Eton? Nothing. Windsor Castle? Same face as if someone had just farted in their direction.

I still had to survive one day in London with them. That was all I could give.

We hit the Tube. First shock: ticket prices. But they did seem to like how often the trains came. Win for London.

Buckingham Palace? Dead silent. I had to ask if they wanted a photo. WTF is it with kids these days?

It was Formula 1 weekend, and McLaren had a whole show set up at Trafalgar Square. F1, Formula E, Lego cars, pit stop games — everything. Free. And still, they were bored after 15 minutes. I spent longer queuing for the loo than they did looking at the cars.

Later, we went to Chinatown, M&Ms World (which they liked), and wandered The Strand. I tried to show them arcades, old hotels, Fortnum & Mason — nope. “We want to see real stuff, not posh stuff.”

After two breaks (one for drinks, one for food), and barely 30% of what I’d planned, they were done. Or rather — one was so upset she couldn’t tell me herself, so had her boyfriend tell me she was tired.

By that point I was as done as they were. Not with the weather, or the walking, or even the teenagers themselves — but with their indifference. Their complete and utter lack of interest in anything. That night, I finally understood: they were a couple, more interested in each other than London, the UK, or me. I was probably just the annoying adult tagging along. Or worse — the free driver and guide.

So I showed them the route for the next day and went to the gym. Alone.