“June. Lovely frozen June. Curiously enough, a large proportion of English folk tend fondly to think of the month of June as being situated during the summer. This is patently bollocks. Admittedly, the trees mount a spurious verdance and people endeavour to play feeble cricket on a variety of blasted heaths but I can assure you that there is no way in which the term ‘summer’ can be justified. No way! Only we — we the destitute, the homeless, the vagabonds — only we know the Siberian truth of an English June. We are its allies and confidants. We are on first-name terms with its frozen strangle and frosty grip.
Thus, here I am in the middle of that month, with frostbitten testicles and iceberg feet, doing serious hand-to-hand with hypothermia. I’m so cold I’m not even hungry, for chrissakes! (Though Malnutrition and Attenuation coyly beckon with mild eyes and smiles urbane.) Yes, the cold is bad but fading slowly. I’m ignoring it as best I can. This seems the sensible course. Anyway, after a while, real cold — the proper Arctic assault — becomes theoretical. Like a disquieting intellectual conviction, it nags but fails to irritate. It anaesthetises against itself. Which is nice of it. All this gives the business of frostbite a kind of grotesque ascetic respectability but I could still do without it… that’s just how I am.”
Robert McLiam Wilson in Ripley Bogle