Mary Poppins after a heavy drink and drugs session

Good god, It's wet here. I mean really. Stupidly wet. Biblical wet. Wetter than John Inman's handshake, liqufied, diluted into water, mixed with more water and then put in a water wetness accelerator if such a thing existed.

And it's lovely. Well, it's lovely to look at from the 2nd floor of this Glasgow building I'm in with big glass windows and gale force winds battering the side. Being outside is about as sensible as watching more than 18 seconds of Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisp (you know who you are).

The wind is blowing so hard that small dogs are being knocked off their feet - not good news, especially if you happen to be a small dog.

Umbrellas are exhibiting that classic FAIL that they do where they blow inside out (there must be a Dragon's Den invention here that would stop the outty-inny situation) and people look like Mary Poppins after a heavy drink and drugs session.

Sometimes being out in the rain can be a joyous experience. I remember playing games of football in utter chaos as the rain hit your face so much it stopped having any feeling and you felt like a god. Games that ended up 32-28 and you had mud inside your body for days on end. And then I remember standing on the open terraces at Accrington Stanley whilst the rain hit my eyes like mini-anvils as Torquay United slumped to a 2-0 loss - with nothing more than a scarf for protection. I shouldn't have gone naked, I know.

And it's like that outside the window right now, whilst I cower here. A coward. But a dry one at that.

So in summary, it's wet. And I ain't looking forward to the journey home neither.