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UK summers always begin with a collective, manic optimism. The clouds part, a single ray of 24-degree sunshine hits the pavement, and suddenly the entire nation collectively decides to spend the next twelve hours straight in a pub garden, confidently pretending that warm fruit cider counts as hydration. Festivals get booked. BBQs happen every weekend. The WhatsApp group chats are frantic. Then Sunday evening hits, and everyone feels absolutely wrecked....