The idiot with the guitar.

Worse than the veritable fleet of chavs desperate to share their favourite choons with the local populace are the glorified buskers who feel the need to serenade a park-full of unwanting sun-worshipers with a select few of their choice chords.

The seasonal athlete.

Whether it’s the space-zapping jocks playing hooliganball, the basket-case tightroping between trees or the token fat girl building up a sweat with a pair of streamers, any sun-day excursion will pit you against some athlete or other as they endeavour to take up the entire park and jeopardise your enjoyment by kicking their ball into your path and asking you to “pass” it back.

The anaemic nude.

All I have said so far is that it’s sunny. This being Britain, the temperature has unlikely exceeded 15′C, yet your precious sight-line is nevertheless obscured by a vast array of bloated white bodies squeezed unconvincingly into a pair of nauseatingly short shorts.

The anorak enthusiast.

I don’t know if they’ve recently transferred from the sun’s core, or have simply become one with their trusty parka, but regardless of the temperature there will always be someone sat in full Inuit regalia.

The anti-summer curmudgeon.

Despite the fact that we, as a nation, see the sun for approximately twelve and a half hours each year, it is truly alarming just how many people out there believe this to be too much. The slightest hint of sunlight has some people hiding indoors with their sunglasses on, hugging the air conditioning until it goes away.

The sunscreen hypochondriac.

Forever on the lookout for SPF Infinity, this individual will have set an alarm or nine for optimum sun-tan lotion application. Outside simply because society necessitates it, this walking obsessive compulsive disorder would rather be locked safely behind a few panes of glass.

The spheksophobe.

Practically invisible to the naked eye, this crowd-member could easily be mistaken for any other. Until, that is, they pounce into a frenzy at the merest sight of a wasp. Completely oblivious to the noises and faces they are making, a fit of flapping will instantly deprive you of any peace and quiet you had obtained until the culprit is safely dead or disappeared.

The makeshift cook.

Since we’ve covered visual and auditory offences, it seems only fair that we pander to the olfactory crowd. Just as you’re settling into contentment – a stomach full of ice cream – the smell of cremating sausages will inevitably disrupt your tranquillity and cart your stomach off to the shops in search of a Sainsbury’s tin-foil barbecue.