Angel was a proud patriot; a true Brexiteer. For the past ten years, he had stubbornly refused to set foot on European soil for a holiday. Why spend money abroad when Britain had everything? Beaches, (occasionally) sunshine, fish and chips, overpriced ice cream and perfectly poured pints. All for the patriotic pleasure of staying at home.
He was determined to prove that Britain could offer all the benefits of a European holiday for less money. Admittedly, the weather was unreliable, prices were skyrocketing, the sea was freezing and the beaches usually came with a generous helping of dog mess – but these were minor details.
Angel was also a passionate small-boat hater. He couldn’t understand why anyone would cross the Channel in a dinghy when they could simply stay where they were. He regularly complained violently about small boats, particularly when they appeared on the news.
This summer, he booked a week in sunny Skegness.
‘None of that foreign nonsense for me,’ he announced. ‘British beaches are the best in the world!’
By 11 am on the first day, Angel had claimed a perfect spot, erected his Union Jack beach umbrella and settled down with a beer and a fresh bag of crisps. He was determined to achieve the perfect tan. He was wearing factor 50, a crimson bucket hat and the confidence of a man who believed he had finally beaten the European holiday industry.
An hour later, the British weather delivered its first Brexit benefit: horizontal rain.
Things deteriorated rapidly. A sudden gust of wind sent Angel’s hat flying, his beach umbrella disappeared into the sea and his sun lounger collapsed beneath him. To make matters worse, a greedy seagull stole his cucumber sandwich and a rogue wave soaked his carefully folded copy of The Sun.
‘Bloody foreigners!’ he shouted at the seagull.
‘Angel, it’s a British seagull,’ his mate Steven reminded him.
‘Well, it certainly doesn’t look grateful to be here!’
The sun eventually reappeared, burning Angel bright red. A passing child pointed at him and asked his mother if the man was a lobster. Steven was practically crying with laughter, but Angel ignored him.
Later, by 4 pm, they were nursing cold pints in the beach café.
‘Still think Britain has everything?’ Steven asked.
‘Absolutely,’ Angel replied. ‘Sun, sea, sand and the best value for money.’
Steven looked at his friend’s sunburnt face. ‘You’re certainly a sun of the beach, Angel!’
Angel wasn’t amused. ‘Next year, I’m going somewhere warmer.’
‘Where?’
Angel hesitated. ‘Devon. I’ve heard it’s practically abroad.’
Steven raised his glass: ‘To the sun of the beach!’
Angel glared at him, then decided there was only one thing worse than a British summer.
A British summer with witnesses.
A week of sun in the uk is considered a heatwave. We can have 4 seasons in one day 😅