Eat my swimming trunks, Storm Big Bollix

The other day, blipper Northern (who should know a thing or two about weather fronts arriving fresh and energised and unbroken by mountain chains or long journeys over continental plates) and I were discussing the naming of Atlantic storms. Northern reckoned that they have gone nastier now that they have names. 
I suggested trying to counteract the perverse effect of naming by using nouns that are as harmless as possible.  Storm Marshmallow anyway? Who fears Storm Fluff? How much havoc can a Storm Camomille really wreak? 
But Northern feared that it may make the weather fronts even angrier. 
We may as well call them what they are. The next ones will be called Storm Arsehole, Storm Shite, Storm Big Bollix (named by the Irish Met Office), Storm Bawbag (it was their Scottish homologues' turn to get naming privileges), Storm Gros Enculé , Storm Grande Puttana, Storm Gran Culo, Storm Cara de Merda, Storm Kotzbrocken.
And so on.


In the meantime I managed to squeeze a lunchtime swim between Big Bollix and Bawbag.