Britain's peculiar fascination with the weather

The Barbican's Rain Room exhibition is a reminder of how the weather defines our nation’s character.

"When two Englishmen meet, their first talk is of the weather". Dr. Johnson noted this in the 18th century and yet it is still unassailably true. Despite Oscar Wilde’s famous riposte, "conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative", Britain remains a country peculiarly fascinated with the weather. This obsession seems quintessentially British, our literature is flooded with references and metaphors; one need only skim through a book of English poetry, or look at a Turner painting. However, there is something rather sentimental about it. As Richard Mabey aptly writes, despite the banality of discussions on the weather, the nice thing is that "we’re all in the weather together", it offers each of us a common narrative. Perhaps we choose this narrative because of a lack of imagination or because of an ingrained ‘stiff upper lip’ and a need for a conversation ‘safety net’. Whatever the reason, it is an ingrained part of our culture, BBC Radio 4 discovered this when they proposed cutting the late-night shipping forecast which provoked an outcry from listeners, most of whom did not actually live near the sea.

Pondering these thoughts and with a mixture of intrigue and bafflement, I headed off to see the Rain Room at the Barbican. The installation has been one of the institution's most successful exhibitions and comes to a close this weekend having opened on 4 October. The installation, created by Random International, seeks to "push people outside their comfort zones" and has certainly created a storm with queues averaging six hours. Once inside the rain room, one is confronted with what appears to be a downpour. However, when you enter as if by magic, the rain does not touch you. The installation is designed to allow viewers to interact and experience is both exciting and contemporary, the space is calming and intriguing and allows individuals to make what they will of it.

The exhibition, for me, most aptly sums up our fascination with weather and suggests that we enjoy the weather, not just as a banal piece of information, for idle chit chat, but as something that defines part of our nation’s rich character.

The Rain Room exhibition at the Barbican closes this weekend


The Rain Room exhibition at the Barbican.
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Must I unremember the day I wept over the long, slow suicide of a 27-year-old man?

At that time we did talk about the occupation of Ireland. Now we have to pretend we didn’t and it’s all the jolly UK and thank you, England for the peace process.

The misremembering of history interrupts these tales of my own squalid past. Very often I find myself wishing my memories were wrong, or that I’d forgotten more than I have. This would certainly be the case were I to be a politician, albeit a small-time one in big-time government. In the era of renunciations and sincere apologies, I would have to say sorry most of the time.

But I can’t. I can’t get past that clear day in May 1981, when the tangy cold spring air of a New York day got right inside me. Ambling home from another long, messy night in the Village, I was near 52nd when I saw people carrying a coffin.

“It’s not him, of course. It’s a fake coffin,” said a woman who saw the shock on my face. Maybe I was already crying. I knew and didn’t know but asked anyway.

“Yes. Bobby.”

Bobby Sands had died. Crowds were gathering with banners about Smashing Long Kesh and Smashing Thatcher.

The shock of it has never left me and God knows “martyrs” come two a penny now. Yet the idea that someone can starve themselves slowly to death for an idea is shocking. The idea that someone can let them do it, either “for” a United Ireland or “for” a United Kingdom, remains profoundly disturbing to me.

I need no lectures about what vile and murderous bastards the IRA were, or the numbers of innocents they killed. Nor about the smeary sentimentality of martyrdom itself. All I can say is that I had little idea of what “we” did in Ireland as long as I lived in England. A boy at school had run off to join the IRA. My mum said, “Well, he’s always been tapped, that one.”

We were kept ignorant. For some stupid reason, I did not think that Thatcher would let the hunger strikers die.

Their demands, remember, were the right not to wear prison uniform or to do prison work, rights to free association and education within the prison, one visit, one parcel, one letter a week. They wanted to be treated as political prisoners. Thatcher said Sands had no mandate. He was actually an MP, with more votes than she ever won in Finchley.

In New York that day, when we got to Third Avenue, there was anger and then solemnity. There were mumblings about what a death like that entailed . . . Mandela then instigated a hunger strike on Robben Island. There were protests in Milan and Ghent. French towns would name streets after Sands.

At that time, though, yes, we did talk about the occupation of Ireland. Now we have to pretend we didn’t and it’s all the jolly UK and thank you, England for the peace process.

So, must I unremember that day when I sat down on the pavement and wept over the long, slow suicide of a 27-year-old man? Let me know how to uncry all those tears shed for that terrible, terrible waste.

Suzanne Moore is a writer for the Guardian and the New Statesman. She writes the weekly “Telling Tales” column in the NS.

This article first appeared in the 01 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Tory tide