Great British Weather

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The rain bounced off the Tarmac like marbles bouncing down a hill. Thunder rumbled around the airfield and lightning ripped across the sky. Thankfully, we were safely on the ground touching down moments before the storm rolled in. I guessed up in the air, other passengers were being tossed and thrown about in the angry skies. 
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the pilot said. “Unfortunately, because of the storm, we are going to have to hold you in the plane for just a few moments. We thank you for your patience.” 
“What the...?” The man in front of me said. “This is just one step too far.”
 I felt his pain. He, like me, had been delayed eighteen hours by a broken down plane. He, like me, had spent the night in a hotel just outside Frankfurt airport and he, like me, was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. 
“First, the bloody German can't organize a piss-up in a brewery,” he said, “and now this. I bet this is an EU directive, some health and bloody safety rules from Brussels. It's only a drop of rain, rain never hurt anyone. rain never stopped our boys at the Somme.” 
I'd stopped feeling his pain and had started feeling his shame. He was a little Brexit bundle of hate and I for one wasn’t going to let him get away with it.
“Sit down,” I said, “it'll only be a few minutes.”
“You?” he said. “I saw you chatting up that German woman in the bar last night. Call yourself British. You’re bloody collaborator. Come Brexit the likes of you will be hounded out along with the foreigners.” He jabbed a podgy finger in my direction and then turned his attention to the cabin crew. “I demand to be let off this plane.” 
“Sir, we can't let you off, there's no bus to take you to the terminal. The whole airport is on lockdown.” 
“Open this bloody door,” he said. “Who needs a bus, I've got my own two feet.” 
The cabin woman shrugged and pulled the handle of the door letting the steps fall to the runway. 
The little man stormed off the plane, pulled his great British hat on to protect his great British head from the great British rain and then stomped across the apron. No doubt he was composing the letter to the Daily Mail in his head as he went.
Then the was a massive clap of thunder and a flash so bright it exposed our bones. I looked out of my window and saw the little Briton slumped on the Tarmac, smoke coming from his hat. 
“So that’s why there’s an EU directive,” I mumbled to myself.