Hospital Radio: Why do Brits love a BBQ?

There’s something almost epic about the arrival of BBQ season in Britain.

It doesn’t announce itself with certainty—rather, it tiptoes in on a patch of blue sky, a whiff of charcoal from a neighbour’s garden, and the hopeful rustle of a gazebo being unfurled “just in case.” it’s a celebration of optimism that the sun will stay shining and the chef will cook the meat for long enough.

Unlike our sun-drenched cousins abroad, Brits treat BBQ season like a rare but special event. The moment the forecast hints at 20°C and “light cloud,” the nation springs into action.

Supermarkets brim with disposable grills and marinated meats (which I still don’t like). For men (mainly) there’s a quiet thrill in the preparation—scrubbing down the rusty barbecue, locating the tongs that vanished last September, and debating whether halloumi can actually be cooked successfully in the garden.

There is nothing quite like the smell of smoke curling from a barbecue. It’s an aroma that transcends class and postcode, drifting across cul-de-sacs and council estates alike. It mingles with freshly cut grass, sunscreen and the faint tang of cider.

Whether it’s burgers sizzling over coals or something a bit fancy on the grill, the smell alone can summon memories of childhood garden parties, seaside holidays, and impromptu gatherings that stretched long into the evening, involving a little too much Pimm’s and lemonade.

At a barbecue the lines between host and guest, chef and eater can become blurred. Someone inevitably takes charge of the grill—usually with exaggerated seriousness and a spatula held like a sceptre—while others hover nearby, offering unsolicited advice or simply basking in the warmth. Everyone brings something and someone always brings a salad that nobody wants. It’s messy, yet utterly delightful.

The soundtrack of a British BBQ is a symphony of laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of music from a Bluetooth speaker. Now being a radio person, I like to think of myself as an expert on the sort of music that should be played.

I always think the Beach Boys conjure thoughts of summer and Mungo Jerry is usually lurking somewhere, looking for an opportunity to take control of the airwaves. There’s something about grilled food and open air that invites storytelling and the inevitable debate about whether gas grills are “cheating.”

Of course, no article on British BBQ season would be complete without honouring the weather. Rain is not a deterrent—it’s a challenge. Umbrellas are repurposed as grill covers, guests huddle under awnings, and someone always insists “it’s just a passing shower.” There’s a shared pride in braving the elements for the sake of a slightly burnt sausage.

Beyond the food, BBQ season is a feast for the senses. We all try to look as if we are warm enough as the sun goes down. The clink of ice in that Pimm’s glass. I think we all love eating with our fingers and licking the stray tomato ketchup off of our hand. They don’t have to be elaborate eating affairs there is much fun to be had in a paper plate balanced on your lap or a burger eaten standing up.

Ultimately, the joy of BBQ season in Britain lies in its peculiar blend of hope, humour, and hospitality with friends and neighbours. It’s a celebration not just of food, but of short-lived sunshine, of community, and of the stubborn belief that summer will last just long enough for one more round of grilled halloumi, which I have been assured works perfectly well on all types of barbecues.

It’s proof that even in a land of drizzle and pesky wasps hovering around your drink that we know how to make the most of a moment. There should be just about a month of decent weather left, why not invite the friends and family around and perhaps a friend who is known for his barbecue skills.