Soundtrack to a scorcher: my favourite sunshine songs
Greetings sunny pop-pickers, in an effort to encourage the sun this summer here's the first installment on the heliotastic hymns that light up the canon of pop. Sunshine Superman by Donovan (1966)

Sunshine came softly through my a-window today
Could've tripped out easy a-but I've a-changed my ways.

It surely captures something of the unique feeling of sunshine, and how it can make magical an ordinary day. The jangling sitar opening, and psychedelic lyrics open a sunny window onto a moment in popular cultural history. By equating hedonistic sun-worship with psychedelic head-expansion, it reminds us that, even pallid, puny Scottish folksters could feel the rays emanating from California. The first brand of LSD was called 'Sunshine' (1967), and all those flipped out hippies soaking up the sun and giving out the love in Golden Gate park were simply Letting the Sunshine In.

Turn on, tan-in, flop out.

5th-dimensional Ultraviolet Light baths? Bring 'em on
I've just learned of the following, and am decidedly miffed:

"Last week the Earth was bathed with a colossal influx of 5th-Dimensional Ultraviolet Light. This shaft of Light interpenetrated every electron of precious Life energy for approximately 17 hours. This powerful influx of Light accelerated one-millionfold the Etheric frequencies of the mental and emotional strata of Earth. During that time, this acceleration had the effect of amplifying Humanity's thoughts and emotions one-millionfold as well.

Lightworkers around the world took advantage of this rare opportunity and empowered hopes and dreams for themselves and for all Life on this sweet Earth. Now what should we anticipate from this gift of Light? How can we expand the beneficial effects?..." [It continues at:
http://www.thecosmicchurchoftruth.net/art-whattoexpect.htm ]

What's more to the point: how did I miss this? What on earth was I doing when, this cosmic sun-bathing opportunity presented itself? I suppose it's for the best. I don't think I have an SPF high enough for this stuff by the sound of it. And I suppose the same rule as US Sci-Fi films applies here, anyway - that aliens and SurroundScreen Armageddon only visit the US of A. Bloody typical...

This is mad. It's February, and I've just heard an ice cream van trundling down the Hackney Road.

Scorcherwatch 2008 is on. Send in sightings, hearings and intimations of Summer to us here...

Flip Flops in February

I trust the picture says it all....

That's the spirit: East Londoners get some early training for the summer season (London Fields, 09/02/08)

What a weekend, and what a gladdening spectacle. The sun fhas been glorious for the last 3 days. It topped fifteen degrees in London, and it's still only February. I spent most of it basking in my open window, shielded from the breeze, and feeling the quickening of my blood as the sun did its magic. The sun is too low on the horizon for UV rays to penetrate the atmosphere at this time of year, but something was working to lift me up. Maybe the warmth, or the idea of it. What does it matter? it did the trick.

As the sun slipped below the flats opposite I went in pursuit, and found it and what it bestowed blessing East London. Broadway Market was teeming with trendies lapping it up as they spilled beerily across the the road on Saturday. London Fields was packed with sun-baskers - can they be bathers if fully clothed? - who moved around the park in pursuit of the sun. A reminder, if one were needed, that this is truly a nation of sun-worshipers determined not to waste a drop. Even in February.

I'd love to state that this bodes well for the Summer Campaign, but am all too aware of the false promise of last spring. The warmest sunniest April was followed by an unspeakable excuse for a summer. Let's ensure it get's it right this year...

Don't ban patio heaters, ban the lousy summers that compel us to need them

As if it wasn't bad enough that they hoard all the sunshine, other nations of the EU now want to remove our lifeline to the lifestyle they take for granted. A call to ban patio heaters outside pubs in Europe: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/7219565.stm

Yes, they are the mark of our shame, branding us as a nation denied its right to a proper summer. Yes, we'd like to relegate them to the museum, and proudly instal where they once stood, the brazen barbecue that betokens successful outside living. But until we have the kind of summers those other nations who are plotting this ban luxuriate in (and even complain of), then we must cling to these ignoble crutches like drowning men to the wreckage. Let those same sun-rich plutocrats spend a summer attempting to enjoy their cafe society without these solar safety nets, and see if they are still so keen to ban them.

Last 'summer', I spotted an heroic sight outside a London pub. The parasols were being used as umbrellas, the patio heaters were on full blast, and a plucky crowd sat through the deluge determined to enjoy their drink outside. And this was before the smoking ban. These are our rights. And we will fight to the death to defend them...

Tough on clouds and the causes of clouds

Whilst we must do everything we can to actively encourage sunshine this summer, the struggle is not an easy or an equal one. Clouds so often have the upper hand, and worse - are actively encouraged in some quarters. We must discourage the kind of thinking that risks leading us into yet another solar downturn, and extra vigilant in the current climate to guard against sentiments that pose a threat to our solar liberty.

Although we disagree with the The Cloud Appreciation Society on fundamentals, we respect their right to exist and to pursue their own agenda. The official body no doubt has pure (albeit misguided) intentions. But any movement will have its extremists; and we must not provide a platform for radical nebulists who are doing their utmost to undermine the nation's natural antipathy to grey sky thinking, thus allowing outside aggressors (frontal depressions) to lay siege to our skies. It is surely no accident that the year after the Cloudspotters published their manifesto was one of the wettest, cloudiest summers on record.

But not Cloudspotters alone. Those who have gardens and think more of their lawns than the nation's solar liberties, or those who complain it’s too hot after three days of sun, or claim we ‘wouldn't appreciated it if it was like this all the time’, should be forced to keep their views to themselves, instead of encouraging the kind of weather that needs no encouragement in these isles. Remember - Careless talk costs summers.

To learn more about our views on Clouds consult our Frequently Asked Questions

http://www.lovesunshine.org/

Rage, rage against the dying of the light

The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.
Wordsworth (‘Immortality Ode’)

January 23rd has been calculated to be the most miserable day of the year. Christmas has gone, the credit card bills arrive just as the new year resolutions depart, the weather is bleak, the nights still long. It was the day I was born. In a suburb of Croydon. A suburb of a suburb. It pissed down with rain that night. It’s a trauma I’ve never quite got over. Rudely ejected into a cold, wet, dark world. I wanted to climb back into the warm, and have been yearning for the warmth ever since.

Last year I did the sensible thing on my birthday (the big 4-0), and flitted off to then sun. A week spent in sun-lounger stupour under the blue skies of Sharm el Sheikh was the perfect remedy for anniversary angst.

This year, I’m in London, having failed to secure a sunlit birthday bolthole. But also with important work to do. As chief architect of the sunlit utopia we must build, there is much to turn my hand to in these dim dark days. The solar struggle goes on…

Announcing the launch of Scorcher 2008

The UK summer of 2007 was unforgivable - the worst since records began. Those who weren't flooded out of their house and home, suffered the misery of perpetual grey skies, driving rain, and day-time television. Life was put on hold for a whole season. Instead of BBQs we had bed socks; instead of sandals we had souwesters; and we were forced to cower inside instead of seizing the day beneath the benign face of Heaven.

This simply cannot be allowed to happen again.

LoveSunshine believes sunshine in summer is a right, not a privilege, and that nothing should come between a Brit and his or her sunshine. We demand our sacred rights to go out in the midday sun, and broil ourselves as red as the Roast Beef of Old England. Our Scorcher 2008 Campaign is dedicated to defending these rights, and doing everything in our power to ensure our enjoyment of a just and equitable allocation of sunshine.

There is no room for complacency. Nothing can be left to chance within the current climate. Over the coming months we will be taking measures to promote our cause, lobby for our demands, and make this and every summer from now on a scorcher.

These are early days, and there is much to be done: but the first blow has been struck. Follow the campaign here, spread the word, and join the crusade for a scorcher.

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are reaching for that star...
http://www.lovesunshine.org/

Park life

The sun sneaks through in scattered shreds, and I greedily grab the rare rays it affords. My morning ritual is now all but a fond memory. But one morning last week I woke up to pale blue cloudless skies, and seized the opportunity by taking the early bus and seeking out my usual patch. No chance. Too low at that time, I moved on to Russell Square, big enough surely to have sufficient patches to share. But too tree-filled to allow any of the benches to be graced by the late-rising sun. The grass, which, 4 weeks ago now, would have been straw dry and accommodating, was lush, green and decidely damp and muddy. And so I moved on, northwards, to fresh squares and pastures new.

I found a patch in an unfamiliar square, with a bench facing a scrub of grass. Filled with pigeons. It's an occupational hazard of an obsessive urban sun-seeker to become aquainted with the habits of these birds. And there are few things more belittlig to the male ego than to watch them at their sports. As Blur put it, 'they love a bit of it'. They most surely do, but can't always get it. Sigh.

In fact rarely get it, from what I have observed. You usually see it in spring time. The males, puffed up and cocky, with tails splayed and chests out, they strut their stuff before the females like so many feathered Travoltas. They spin and preen, do their little twirls, to the complete indifference and uninterest of the females. Working their avian mojo, it takes the male a short while to notice the fact that the female has moved on. He attempts to recover his composure, gathers himself together, and pursues the next babe who wanders into view. The old game of courtship.

But what I find most depressing to contemplate is the fact that I have never once seen a male pigeon successfully copping off with one of his conquests. There's plenty of the bloody things about, so the pigeon race must be replenished from somewhere. Just not from any of the ones I've spied on my benchside sun vigils over the years. Perhaps I'm in the wrong parks. Me and the pigeons both. In other parks, in other parts of the city, in other cities, pigeons and not doubt humans enjoy fulfilling romantic relations. Watching these unfortunate males strikes a chord in me and I look away. It's bad enough seeing happy couples, without having loser pigeons to remind me of my prospects.

The ones I saw this particular morning were a sad and shabby crew. The dregs of what Londoners unaffectionately call flying rats. They were huddled together in a mass in front of my feet, and looked like they had been sleeping there all night. I'm not really an expert on pigeon sex, beyond the folorn attempted scuffles I'd observed over the years. But I assumed they were seasonal, and that it was in the spring that a young pigeon's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of tail(feather). If it is, then this one chap i had observed had found some viagra in his millet. While the rest were dozily suppine he was trying his luck with all he surveyed. He'd dispensed with all pretence of flamenco courtship (perhaps for the reasons I'd noted), and simply tried to climb on to anything he could find. He didn't have any more luck than his more ostentatious brethren, but I had to admire his nerve. A last ditch attempt while the sun shone.... Oh, God.

Requiescat - English Summer MMVI

Our glorious summer, of which we had such high hopes, and which showed such promise, appears to have given up on us. As I survey the brooding black clouds that have hung over us for nearly 2 weeks now, it but remains for me to scatter some earth on its coffin, and say a few words about what was and what might have been.

Very short and very sweet is the obvious way of characterising it. There was no spring to speak of, but plenty to moan about. It was the wettest May since 1773, and we scarcely saw a glimpse of the sun for about six weeks together. Even those who aren't really big sun fans were complaining about the lack of sun, so, for once, it wasn't just me being impossibly demanding. It was official. The miserable weather got to as far as early June without any sign of relenting, and it looked like this summer was going to join the roll call of shame (along with 2004, 02, 2000) by being monumentally crap.

And then miraculously the clouds cleared, revealing that skies could also come in blue in this country. The sun came out, kept coming out and actually stuck around. For weeks. The temperatures soared, records fell, and we found ourselves enjoying that rare and glorious thing, a 'scorcher'. Or what is merely called a 'summer' elsewhere.

The weather transformed London and the way it went about its life. Buses that were usually full to bursting in the evening rush hour went past nearly empty. People were out making the most of the weather. The atmosphere was palpable. People relaxed, smiled, enjoyed themselves. In short, they lived.

That's what I mourn most, as I look out over the courtyard where two weeks ago I sunbathed and bar b qued with my neighbours: life. Lived to the full. Spontaneously, out of doors, in the heat, and then long into the fragrant night. BBQs or picnic every night. Too hot to sleep. Then why bother. People just hung out on the streets. On weekdays. They just sat on steps of squares, chatting late into the night. Like they do in other countries, and without the need for alcohol. For a few weeks we glimpsed another world, and knew what it must be like to live with a degree of certainty. Not ruled and persistently frustrated by a capricious, vicious, predicably unpredicatable climate.

And just as we were getting used to it, it was snatched untimely from our grasp. It surprised us with its arrival, and has dumbfounded me with its premature departure. I feel cheated, indignant and frustrated. I loved this summer, because of the way it came from nowhere and with such force. And now it has gone. I was looking forward to its slow maturing. Its slipping gracefully into a well-earned autumnal repose. I was speculating on whether I would be able to accept the coming of winter with a bit more equanimity than usual. I believed the hype put about by the media that August was going to continue if not exceed the record-beating efforts of June and July. 'If you think it's hot now', one of them asserted, 'you ain't seen nothing yet'. And I let myself believe them.

Which is why I'll be stuck in grey rainy England for the August bank holiday next weekend. The first time in about 6 years. When the temperatures really soared in July I'd been out of the country. Worse, I'd been in Spain where it was ... I can hardly say it without spitting venom ... where it was cloudy and a bit drizzly the day the records fell in Britain. As August is usually hotter than July I was determined not to get caught out again. Idiot.

And so another week starts under grey, grumpy clouds. With grey grumpy people shuffling back to work. A sense of unfinished business, unfulfilled potential hangs over us. It really feels like summer has gone, autumn will be soon be here, and something truly special has died.

Waiting for my man (Helios)

The sun returned yesterday. Albeit fleetingly. By lunchtime it was pissing down. The sky was streaked with milky plumes, and there was a decidedly autumnal turn to the air. The long hot days of last month now seem like a distant dream.

I had established a ritual in those balmy days of getting an early bus to work, and sitting in the sun for about an hour and a half in a small park in Bloomsbury. Some days the sun was hot enough to prickle the skin and even tan at 7.45 am. A great way to start the day.

Yesterday I visited my favourite spot for the first time in what must be nearly 2 weeks, and the sun was barely touching my usual bench. I sat there shivering for ten minutes before it got into its stride.

This square, in fact most of Bloomsbury, is a haven for junkies. Spilling over from St Giles (Centre Point), and pushed South by the on-going overhaul of Kings Cross. You get used to seeing them about, urgently intent at 7.30 am. As I sat, shivering on my bench, waiting for my own man (Helios), I recognized an affinity with them. My sun devotion a dependency not so very different from theirs, and often taking me to great lengths to get my ‘fix’. My Turkey needed seriously warming up that morning.

A few weeks ago there would have been a choice of benches if my favourite spot (the Early Riser Special) was occupied. Today only my usual spot was barely straining into the sun, and was sprawlingly occupied by what looked like a vagrant. Shabby genteel, Dickens would have called him. He seemed engrossed in his book about chess moves, so I perched on the far end of my sunspot. And then the sun rose higher, and along with it the unmistakable aroma of street-sleeping hygienic neglect. A “Hot Tramp” may have turned Mr Bowie on (each to his own), but it made my vigil on MY sunspot deeply unpleasant for about another ten minutes. Before I could shuffle over to another that had finally been reclaimed by the late-summer sun. I can see my devotion is going to have its trials as the sun retreats this year.

Today is ropey. Rain. Overcast, with the occasional glimmer of hope. What has happened to our glorious summer? I despair...

My first posting, although it will be the culmination of many weeks, months even years of ruminations. I should have started this earlier, but I now have a purpose for a spot, so today seems a good time to dip my toe into the blogsphere.

The purpose. I’m trying to put together a website devoted to celebrating and sharing sunshine. It will be at www.lovesunshine.org when I have content, design, functionality, layout and everything else sorted. I’m making very slow progress as I try to scale a near vertical learning curve equipped with near zero resources, less understanding and no common sense or technical ability. O, and very little time. I do have lots of wonderful chums ‘though, who are giving me a leg up as I attempt to get my head round the various decisions and scary complexities involved in going public in hyperspace. If it’s still called that.

Why today? Because I can have a good old moan about the weather. The glorious and decidedly uncharacteristic summer we were enjoying until a few days ago has given up on us, and left me - a hopeless sun-addict - speechless with indignation. Or vociferous rather. The newspapers had all been predicting an August even hotter than the record-breaking July, and I was looking forward to another month of blue skies, scorching sun, outdoor living, accomplished BBQs, and a life fulfilled by a proper allocation of regular reliable sunshine. An exotic window had opened to us in England. Affording a glimpse of another world. One we usually only see in brief tantalizing episodes – the ‘sunny spells’ that fleetingly cast their glamour over us here – or when we outsource the stuff overseas. I was just getting used to planning things, eating outdoors, and prostrating myself on grass the colour and texture of Wheatabix. I like grass to look like Wheatabix. It’s the sign of a good summer.

But after a few bouts of torrential rain, and a few days of grim, grey porridgey skies we are slipping into an alarmingly familiar pattern of business-as-bloody-borringly usual in grey old London. It’s starting to restore the green, the grumpy faces, and already the women are wearing their winter styles. A Pox on it. (The weather was exactly like this exactly 2 years ago today.*)

And why am I particularly miffed today? Because my special sun-hood I ordered for working outside in the sunshine arrived today. Just to rub it in. I ordered it weeks ago when, after about 7 weeks of reliable sunshine, I wasn’t getting a stroke of work done, and thought I ought to find a way of typing and tanning at the same time. As it is simply impossible for me to be inside when the sun shines outside this thing should be the answer to my prayers. Should have been. My prayers now focus on the return of the sunshine. Please, weather gods. Just one last, sustained, and truly infernal, burst before we go into winter. It would mean so much to me…

*How do I remember what the weather was like 2 years ago? Because:(a) I’m an obsessive. I have a personal and personally aggrieved recollection of what our summers were like stretching back to at least 1982. (I can recall them if anyone’s interested. Which is unlikely. I discovered recently how obsessive this is when I distributed a questionnaire on people’s attitude to sunshine, which included a question about summers past. And few could even remember what last summer was like.) (b) Two years ago today I had my first date with my last girlfriend – who cruelly dumped me back in February. And so I have a particularly acute, and self-indulgently melancholy, recollection of the day. The summer – which was bleedin lousy that year – gave up completely that day (with a few brief showings later on). So I’m stricken with foreboding as well as a general brooding sulkiness recalling what might have been. The great dreamy promise that glimmered out that day and the early days and weeks following. The fools gold of an ultimately doomed relationship. The clouds got in the way.