Could an apparent inability to predict anything much beyond the next five minutes explain TV weather presenters’ efforts to distract us? Dazzled by her acid bright outfits and maniacal grin, who can recall what Carole Kirkwood just promised for ‘Eng-lind’ or ‘Scot-lind’? A tsunami might be headed for Wales but all we’re thinking is how Sian Lloyd looked better as a redhead and Lembit Opik? How could she? Freezing fog or fluffy clouds? Sorry, I was too busy trying to work out little Matt Taylor’s curiously hybrid accent and as for the cadaverous Daniel Corbett, he could be announcing Saharan sunshine but I’m cowering behind the sofa, hands on ears, fleeing the Childcatcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Forecasting rain, giggly Tomasz Schafernaker , a weatherman with a nice sideline in beef-cake for the boys (as on his cover for gay mag Attitude, above) once threatened ‘a muddy sh**e’ at Glastonbury * and after their woefully off-the-mark promise of a barbecue summer, that just about sums up the Met Office’s prognostications.
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