“Back in My Day…”

The summer of 1976 — the season Baby Boomers will cling to until the final jug of lukewarm Robinsons squash evaporates off a scorched patio. For those unfamiliar, 1976 was the year it got hot in Britain. Not real hot by modern standards, but hot enough for a few shirtless dads to mow the light brown lawn while “You to Me Are Everything” by The Real Thing warbled from a transistor radio. A time so beloved it’s been mythologised like the UK’s own version of Woodstock, only with more burnt sausages and fewer hallucinogens.

The Great Lukewarm Apocalypse

That year, the UK reached a whopping 35.9°C in Cheltenham on 3 July, which became the national high score. Ever since, Boomers have been boring anyone under 50 with lines like, “You think this is hot? You should’ve seen ’76, mate — the country melted. Standpipes, the lot!” Yes, thanks Graham. But here’s the thing: if the exact same weather happened now, it would be filed under “Another pleasant valley Sunday.” (what a song that is).

Hotter, Faster, Grimmer

Let’s be honest: 35.9°C was impressive — in the same way a Nokia 3210 was once a technological marvel. But we’ve moved on. Tech evolves, music steadily worsens, and climate change has turned mild panic into full-blown heatstroke.

In 2022, we didn’t just beat that record — we vaporised it. 40.3°C in Lincolnshire. The sort of temperature that makes you question what on earth it will be like in another 20 years if we can’t slow things down a bit sharpish.

Since 1976, that sacred temperature has been beaten at least 11 times. We’ve had 37°C in 1990, 38.5°C in 2003, and then July 2022, when Coningsby transformed into the UK’s first outdoor sauna. No standpipes — just spontaneous pavement liquefaction and a record number of Crocs fusing with tarmac.

“But it was hot for weeks in ’76!”

Yes, Karen, it was. But it’s over. Let it go. You weren’t braver because you sunbathed through it in baby oil and a fold-out deckchair. You just didn’t have Wi-Fi or real-time UV warnings.

Today’s heatwaves come with extra features: existential dread, rolling hosepipe bans, and awkward debates over whether installing environmentally dubious domestic air-con makes you morally bankrupt or just sweaty and honest.

Meanwhile, children in 2025 are suffering climate anxiety before they’ve even learnt to spell “ozone.” But please, do go on about how Uncle Derek got sunburnt in Weymouth in ’76, because that’s definitely the apex of meteorological suffering.

What You Can Have, Boomers

Boomers remember ’76 fondly because it was sunny, pub gardens were full, and their knees didn’t make that hurt when going upstairs. Nostalgia is a warm if delusional place. And look, we’ll give you the winters. Most of us over 55 survived icy bedrooms with frost inside the window, parents who thought duvets were a French conspiracy and that chilli con carne was foreign muck. That’s real grit. Those winters are over, one because it’s warmer, two, because of double glazing, insulation and sophisticated heating systems rather than a coal bunker.

But 1976? That’s not your hill to die on anymore. At best, it’s a mildly uncomfortable picnic compared to the full-on solar punishment we’re getting more and more regularly now.

The End Is Hot

Here’s the unvarnished truth: 1976 walked so 2022 could run screaming into a vat of Factor 50. It was a taste of things to come. Some could say it was a warning but we are all guilty of choosing denial over warnings.

So, let it go, Boomers. You had your sweaty moment. Now the rest of us are melting into our patio furniture in actual record-breaking heat while you reminisce about how much better everything was when crisp packets were made of metal, flasks were tartan, and Tadley, for reasons that still baffle me, had a Spanish restaurant called Casa Roberto’s. On the run from Franco perhaps?

It’s no longer a generational competition. It’s a losing battle against the sun.

And in case you haven’t noticed: the sun’s winning. And if it keeps winning, we’re all toast.