The Tube Will Be Sorted When You're Dead

I don't get the tube. I simply refuse. Have you ever been down there? Vile. Offensive to all five senses. A mug's mode of transport. The very act of "tapping in" is like being handed a shovel to dig your own grave, before stepping directly into it and thanking TfL for the opportunity, but would they mind just nailing it shut from the outside, please? – to which they say, "expect severe delays". I had a go on it once at the beginning of summer and the experience was so harrowing I began immediately looking into adult confirmation courses, so convinced was I, now, of the existence of hell.

Anyway, I haven't experienced this firsthand, but based on the temperatures above ground I would imagine that the degree level of The Tube – an angry metal cylinder full of people excreting while looking at adverts about their impending funeral arrangements – is approximately Very Fucking Hot.

Britain, obviously, is not geared up to withstand conditions beyond the average. We don't know what to do with 33 degree heat when we're not On The Continent, splayed face down on a beach at the total behest of the sun, like a pile of kebab meat dropped on the pavement. In the context of our ordinary little lives, shuffling from Pret to Pret in our work shirts, 33 degree heat becomes an unfathomable force – like Vindaloo or God. It is entirely incompatible with our nonsense road networks and knackered modes of transport. It is also entirely incompatible with our inherent national response, which is to get on with things under the assumption that it'll all be fine, probably. Annual flash flooding that completely and routinely destroys large parts of the country: ahh, freak accident, doubt it'll happen again, dw. Precisely five flakes of snow: everything is broken but just stay inside, you don't need to go to that GP appointment anyway, you're alright. The Central line being so hot it's about to land an elderly in hospital:

Like everyone else born and bred in the UK, my trigger response to this was "2030! LOL! We'll be LIVING ON THE MOON BY THEN!!!!" But, to be honest, the more I read it, the more I enjoy it. "Hi Giovanni, yeah, sorry about almost murdering your nan, but the good news is we've just discovered this 1902 invention called 'air conditioning' and that'll be with you in about 12 years." Astronomical levels of Big Dick Energy on Sol. This is the response we deserve, as well. A pathetic solution to a pathetic problem. Hot, is it? Hot in your highly advanced transportation box shuttling you in and out of your rich metropolis every two to four minutes? Wales isn't even allowed to have electrified rail yet. Grow up.

I can't be arsed. Don't even bother with "The Deep Tube Upgrade Programme". This Friday will give us 37 degree heat, a lightning storm and the longest blood moon lunar eclipse of the 21st century – we're not going to make it beyond the weekend, let alone 2030. Just let everyone work from home. Shut the entire country down and let us do our emails from inflatable paddling pools in the street. Give everyone the summer off. Stagger pay so we have meaningful blocks of time to enjoy being alive, instead of festering in conditions that mean we have a base-level disappointment with everything, and therefore a relatively short period of discomfort is likely to send us over the edge, having genuine opinions about Bin Day and going mental about public transport as if it is sentient.

Basically, what I'm saying is: why make the tube cold when we could have full communism instead.

@emmaggarland