The Wrong Type of Heat

Another day in the blistering heat.  It's strange how we British spend so much time complaining when it rains during the Summer months, yet when we get a genuine heat wave, we all start moaning that it is too hot.   Apparently it is all down to the fact that we get the wrong type of heat here in the UK.  At least, that's what someone was trying to convince me of today.  You see, in Morocco you can go out all day in the sun and never burn, but come back to the UK and your skin peels off in the heat.  I suspect this has more to do with the fact that when people go off on their foreign holidays, they tend to smother themselves in sun cream, yet back home don't seem to think that their skin might need the same protection.  Personally, I just try to stay out of direct sunlight at this time of year and instead lurk in dark corners.  Actually, I've just learned to take precautions like always wearing long sleeved shirts when outside in this weather (my skin burns before it tans) and, since my once luxurious locks have begun to thin, wearing a hat when the sun is very strong.  To be honest, my main problem in the heat is the risk of dehydration - I spend a lot of the time in the car and, even with windows open and fans on, it feels like a furnace by mid-morning.  Consequently, this week has left me feeling exhausted.

Which is probably why I've spent most of the week here being nostalgic and rambling on about the TV of my childhood and my fallen heroes of that era.  Thankfully, no more of these figures of my past have died (not that I've heard of, anyway), but that won't necessarily stop me from getting nostalgic again.   Talking about The Val Doonican Show yesterday reminded me of all those other TV favourites of the seventies who had eponymous shows back then: Lulu, Petula Clarke, even Vera Lynne.  At holiday times they'd all have their own special programmes - how well I remember Tom Jones on Happiness Island back on Easter Monday 1974.  That was the one where he performed that song on the yacht, whilst dressed only in his speedos and a sea captain's hat, which traumatised my ten year old self greatly.  I mean, that was the image of masculinity which we were supposed to aspire to - is it any wonder I was left feeling totally inadequate?  How could anyone live up to that?  Cliff Richard was another semi-permanent fixture in the schedules back in the early seventies, with It's Cliff Richard.   Another Saturday night show, this one was sandwiched between Dr Who and Dixon of Dock Green.  There's probably a joke in there somewhere, but it's probably also libellous so we won't go there.  I seem to remember that Engelbert Humperdinck had his own show around this time as well, but he was no match for Cliff  (again, there's probably a gag in there, but it is still probably libellous).  But enough, for now, of this nostalgia.  I've got to go and sort out my new phone.  I'm already getting nostalgic about the old one...