Date: 11 July 2025
(Wait. Scratch that, citizen. It’s 2047 in the Reckoning of the Rain Lords. Time slips like a soggy teabag in this heat choked hellscape…)
You. Yes, you, hunkered in your fog shrouded flat, peering out at the sky like it’s personally betrayed you.
You sip your tepid tea, that bitter brew of empire’s ghosts and oversteeped regret, and what do you do?
Complain. Always complaining.
Too hot?
“Blimey, it’s a bleedin’ furnace out there. Feels like the sun’s gone rogue, innit?”
Too cold?
“Cor, this chill’s gnawing at me bones like a rabid fox in a snowdrift.”
Back and forth, a pendulum of piss and vinegar, swinging eternal in the gray void of British endurance…
If you’re reading this and thinking, “Oi, this email’s a bit much,” congrats…
You’re complaining again. Feed the machine, why don’t you?
We’ve all died a million times since the great heatwave of 2025…
Now we’re trapped in a future where we’re the fuel.
You think those complaints vanish into the ether? Nah. They’re harvested, you see. Sucked up by the Whinge Engines. Those hulking beasts squatting in the ruins of Big Ben, grinding your gripes into energy for the elite.
Your “too hot” moans power their air conditioned bunkers; your “too cold” curses stoke the furnaces that keep their champagne chilled. You’re the battery, luv.
A human Duracell dipped in perpetual dissatisfaction…
And then you snap away from this wild dream and realise hey. We can’t have it all.
Enjoy the weather while it lasts.
It’s the most typical British thing to moan about.
Stephen “The Overseer of Optimal Outrage” Walker
P.S. Recovery tip: Try smiling at the sky. It might not eat you. Today.
And if you’ve learnt something from these emails. It’s all about having fun while writing them.