How To Survive The Australian Summer

It was hot yesterday. I know this because when I woke up and logged into Facebook, head swimming through an excruciating weekend wine-haze, I was confronted by the pet hate of most social media users:

Topless selfies. At the beach; at the park. Photos from that day of sun kissed faces on balconies. Guys and girls swigging Club Mate in singlets, shorelines glinting in the background.

Sure signs that summer had almost arrived.

This was unprecedented, and left me with a gaping hole in my stomach, not unlike that which I had chundered up due to mixing drinks the night before.

My heart filled with dread when I realised that I, like so many, was unprepared.

Soon we will all fall ill with heatstroke as the mercury heats up at long last. Which is why I’ve arrived to spill the tea and aid those in need.

Consider this your Australian summer survival guide, or How To Survive The Australian Summer: A listicle by a bitter homosexual.

Prepare to go shirtless.

If you’re not a complete plebeian, you spent the entire winter months of June, July and August getting jacked the fuck up, lifting harder than you’ve ever lifted heavy objects before.

Forget warm overcoats and layering black on black on slightly lighter black: the Australian summer is all about taking every opportunity to go shirtless in the daytime (and the night, if you’re that kind of pretentious alpha-bro). Because what #blessed girls day out isn’t complete without some red hot Instagrammable bikini photos? 

Without the requisite Beach Body all “shredded for summer”, consider yourself wholly unprepared. If you don’t look like an actual swimsuit model ready to stalk a resort-themed runway by December of this year, you may as well just stay inside.

And for those thinking of visiting an (illegal) solarium: Do not spend money on something that comes from the sky.

Optional extras: Mediterranean tan; rampant egotism.

Speaking of nudity:

Fire all your winter cuddle buddies:

When cold plagues the Australian climate, it’s mandatory to enlist at least one or two vague Tinder matches to snuggle up to in the freezing night. However, come the warmer months, mere human contact becomes cursed with sweat drops and pungent odours, often masked with Lynx Africa and your own self-hate.

Unless you’re willing to compromise and risk hyperthermia by cuddling up on a towel by the beach, there is no call for any of this lusting up business. So delete your dating apps and throw away your boxes of condoms, because the kind of athletic sex you’re used to is about to be ruined by stagnant perspiration.

Say goodbye to your winter fling, because if you think it’s bad enough seeing a dude lose his water content at forty degrees on the side of the road: Imagine him touching you.

On that note:

Stay hydrated.

By hydrated, I don’t mean with water. Did you think this was a healthy PSA? Child, please. I mean beer. I mean cider. I mean vodka cruisers in the cool night air.

If there is one past-time Australians have perfected to an absurd degree, it’s the notion of the day drink, or the blissed-out Sunday sesh. Your Saturday nights are about to become extinct, since Australian event promoters nationwide are about to thrust at you with the full force of whatever daytime parties they’ve planned months in advance.

And if you’re willing to fork out the requisite life savings, there are even some fantastic summer festivals you could attend. If you’re fond of sweaty muscle bros, denim booty shorts and the sight of a guy being carried off by his mates after guerning out on too much ecstasy.

Or you could stay home with your friends, and take smiling group photos for Facebook to distract from the reality that you’re all sitting up in front of the fan, whispering “It’s so damn hot” every five minutes.

Post about it on social media.

Because I truly had no idea it was hot outside, and without your constant visual aids filling my Facebook feed of your vodka watermelons and wiener legs at the beach, I might never have picked up on this.

Because sweaty choking heats don’t constantly plague my nights, rather than gentle warmth, as my comfy flannel pyjamas are now suffocating death traps rather than loving cotton hugs.

Because I have literally never seen the inside of a commercial gym, and really need to be reminded of how you’re up to your fourth set of abdominal muscles lining your cheese-grater stomach. (Side-note: How are your arms so big when you’re not even flexing? Stop that.)

Because the entirety of your existence revolves around making yourself look better on the Internet, and if that means posting heavily filtered Instagram snaps of you and your beverage posing at some nondescript balconied-bar (with mates) - then by God, you’re gonna hop to it.

December will see the rebirth of a tradition, a seasonal shift in our cultural awareness, as the sun beats down and cooks our brains until we are rendered inferior forms of life, babbling “Summer’s finally here!” and “Hashtag, warm nights with great friends!”

Though I pray that I will not fall victim to this annual craze, I can only assume that by the time the sunny season rolls around, I will be a fake tanned mess of blonde locks and muscles on my muscles, sipping midday Sangrias with my girls.

Take this guide, and go forth. Be strong, soldier on, and may hand-fans and sunscreen be with you.