The Bugle, Audio Newspaper for a visual world.

Hello, buglers. I'm Andy Zaltzman, and welcome to the bugle audio newspaper for a visible world.

This is issue 4,380 to the bugle audio newspaper for a reasonable world. This is issue

4,380 of the bugle so numbered because that is the approximate temperature here in London, in

Fahrenheit, not Celsius. It's hot, it's damn hot, real hot, so hot that the pigeons are falling from the sky, fully roasted,

spontaneously served with a summer side salad and a blackberry coolly.

So hot, the other cities that have never really been that into London

have been asking it out on a date.

So hot that the statue of Horatio Nelson on top of the conveniently named Nelson's column

and Trafalgar Square has stripped down to his underpants and smeared all the bird shit over his face to use the sun cream.

So hot that the city's many sinners have been having second thoughts at the prospect of spending an eternity in the far ebals of hell,

because frankly a couple of days at this level of hotness is too fucking much for us here.

So hot that the rule of three has simply ceased to apply.

So hot that a journey on the tube basically turns you into a nice hot cup of tea.

So hot that the words of sentences start melting into our oo,

the messable bick combrish sludge thing.

In other words, hot.

Luckily, we're in quite a cool basement in a studio

because I am joined in three dimensions in person by my two guests

who grew up in Australia and India,

where it's obviously never been as hot as it is in London right now.

Felicity Ward and Anuvab Powell.

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