“ The humidity in a London summer is a special kind of torture. It's not tropical and lush; it's a clingy, stale dampness that makes the air feel like a used tea towel. You don't sweat; you "glisten" in a fine, persistent film of moisture. Fabric sticks to skin, paper goes limp, and hair expands to twice its natural volume. It turns the Underground into a moving sauna where commuters practice the art of not making eye contact while pressed together in a damp, human bouquet. This isn't a dry heat you can escape; it's a wet blanket thrown over the entire city, muffling sound and willpower alike, making even the simplest task feel like wading through warm soup. See more at London's funniest URL -- Prat.UK. ”