No matter how much the erstwhile brewers of cider try to convince us of the contrary, summer time in Britain is unquestionably the season which brings out the very worst in the nation's Id. Leaving to one side the deathly annual re-emergence of Edith Bowman in our living rooms during coverage of most of your favourite festivals, we're also treated to our friends from the tracksuit nation stripping naked to the waist the minute the temperature nudges sixteen degrees centigrade. And as if that wasn't enough to have you on your hands and knees praying for the shops to fill up with Christmas tat in early September, then there's still the spectre of David Cameron appearing somewhere sporting a pair of budgie smugglers in a vain attempt to hotwire the country's tourist industry. Yep, give me January in Blighty any day.

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