‘Hasn’t this weather been glorious?’ That’s what polite, delusional or otherwise unwise people say when summer rolls around in Britain. I couldn’t disagree with them more.This nation is currently an unendurable cesspit. On one hand, we have patronising politicians and nannying newscasters lecturing us on how to be ‘safe’ in a heatwave as if it’s the very first time we’ve seen the sun. On the other, we have burnt, beer-battered louts taking over our beaches, littering them with rubbish and making too much noise.When I reflect on some of the most outrageous conduct I’ve witnessed (or been part of), I realise the worst behaviour always comes out during summer – whether that be among hooligans or high society. So what is it about Britons that makes us go mad at this time of year? I think I have the answer.It’s not a behavioural bomb that goes off as a result of alcohol and heat, as is the common misconception. And I speak with authority as someone who once had a substantial drinking problem.Yes, there’s a lot of day drinking and general substance abuse that goes on during summer, what with all the extra sport tournaments and festivals on. Toffs in the VIP section at Glastonbury skip around on hallucinogens. Middle-class mums snort cocaine at garden parties. Girl gangs get legless in silly hats at Ascot. Men rip off their shirts, down lager and go feral at football games.We might be more brazen when the sun comes out and it’s all out in the open. But the truth is we’re not built for this; our Viking genes nor our historic infrastructure.Mediterraneans, with their olive skin and relaxed, siesta culture, seem to cope just fine during summer. Fair, blue-eyed exports who over time have resettled in warmer climes of the US and Australia made sensible adaptations, such as widespread air conditioning.But then there’s people like me, of English and Irish descent, sweating it out on the London Underground – literally a network of baking tubes that surely wouldn’t pass health and safety standards if they were designed today. And trying to sleep like a starfish in my over-insulated bedroom all summer, with a flimsy fan blowing hot air around. This nation is currently an unendurable cesspit, says Annabel Fenwick Elliott. We have burnt, beer-battered louts taking over our beaches, littering them with rubbish There’s a lot of day drinking and general substance abuse that goes on during summer, what with all the extra sport tournaments and festivals onWhat’s worse, year after year, too many of us pretend that this is an acceptable way to live. People propose picnics. As if that’s a genuinely brilliant idea! There is a very good reason why humans came up with tables and chairs. And this is because sitting cross-legged on itchy grass is a ludicrously uncomfortable way to eat.By the time you’ve unpacked the hamper, the contents that are best served cold (fruit, sandwiches, white wine) are sweaty and warm; and those that would ideally be hot (pasta, fresh bread, coffee) are tepid. Uninvited guests show up in the form of wasps and ants. Knickers are inadvertently flashed. Errant footballs fly around. It’s hell. And yet, we still do it.Britain is blessed with some lovely parks, countryside and beaches. Not that we can enjoy those when the mercury rises either because there simply isn’t enough room for everyone. Our population has bloated far outside the confines of our narrow roads and little village car parks.And that’s before you even account for the deluge of tourists who flock to the country over June, July and August. These travellers are the maddest of all, of course, for choosing here over anywhere else in the world to spend the summer.Indeed, I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t trust people who claim to enjoy these months in Britain, much like I am suspicious of anyone who dislikes dogs or attests that toddlers are fun.If you are posting photos from London at the moment with unhinged captions like ‘our capital at its finest’ – then you are a strange creature and I fear you. London is clearly best in December, when the pavements are shiny with rain, its ancient monuments are dressed up in Christmas lights and we’re huddled up in pubs complaining – but not really meaning it – about the cold weather.If you were on the beach last weekend, squidged up against hundreds of other pink, sweaty revellers, and you thought you were having a good time, then you baffle me. Or you were simply too drunk on warm cider to notice how terrible it all was.If, however, you are feeling guilty about the fact that you aren’t embracing this heatwave with gratitude, forgive yourself. If you’re dreading another weekend of body odour, hay fever and picnic propositions, you’re not alone.You wouldn’t expect a parrot to have fun in Antarctica. Take it from Professor Hannah Cloke, Regius Professor of Meteorology and Climate Science at the University of Reading who told the Daily Mail this week: ‘The UK is simply not built for sustained heat.’We Britons can be excused, therefore, for going loopy on an island that isn’t optimised for such weather. I don’t expect to feel normal or content again until September, and I refuse to pretend otherwise.