Post by benno on May 20, 2009 5:01:08 GMT -5
Me and a mate write stuff, mostly for our own amusement. I thought I'd share some of it to see if you think its totally lame:
Going swimming is a nice thing to do. When on holiday, popping down to the pool for a few lengths or splashing around in the sea is fun and relaxing. It¡s nice to cool off, get a little gentle exercise and just generally chill out. For two weeks of the year you think I must do this more often. Then you get back home and remember why you dont do it more often.
The local council run leisure centre is worlds apart from the oasis of calm you happily floated about in when abroad. Its old, its noisy, its unpleasant and above all it appears to be THE place where fat, ugly people come to show off their tattoos. It also proves to be another one of those experiences where everyone seems to know what theyre doing apart from me. Thats because its not just as simple as whipping on your trunks and bombing in the deep end. Oh no. Theres a procedure to follow that forms yet another terrifying ordeal.
First of all you have to pay. Taken aback at the cost of lolling around in a chlorine filled hell-hole for an hour I ask the surly woman just how Im supposed to swim after coughing up the required arm and a leg just to get in. Or perhaps theres a facility available on-site for me to donate one of my kidneys should I need in future to cover the cost of entry for a family of 4. Unperturbed by my sarcasm she duly parts me from my cash and asks me if I need a locker token. I assure her I do not intend to swim fully clothed so perhaps that would be a logical presumption. The purchase of the small plastic disc for the locker sets me back a further 20p. Confused as to why this fairly essential addition is not included in the price of entry (maybe next time Ill just drive down in my trunks and save 20p) I brave the changing area.
And what a delightful place it is. Its moist, smelly and filled with members of the general public in various stages of undress. I decide the best thing to do is grab the nearest cubicle. But that cubicle has no lock on the door. So I try another one, which also doesnt have a lock and in addition seems to have played host to a small fire. After 2 further attempts to locate a cubicle that will successfully ensure my temporary nudity will be concealed, I find a lockable cubicle. It may be adorned with the public service message Daz lvs Keighlea 4 eva 2K6 and smell faintly of urine, but it will do the job.
After changing into my bathing attire so quickly I only just avoid friction burns, its time to tackle the locker. Previous research has proved that only a combination of the techniques cramming and punching will ensure your clothes and valuables fit snugly into the allotted space. Be aware that just when you think you ve cracked it theres bound to be a shoe still to go in that youve overlooked. A repeated shoulder charging of the door is needed to make sure it closes before using 20ps worth of plastic coin to lock it. A split second later I notice Im still wearing my watch: my non-water resistant watch.
Its now time to hand my locker key to another courteous and considerate employee in exchange for an oversized elastic band. Dya want two bands?he asks. Erm, I dont knowdo I? I reply, making it painfully obvious to all concerned that I am well and truly out of my element. Well are there more than one of you? he asks. Confused by this seemingly deeply philosophical question I begin to wish Id stayed at home. Or at least stayed in the cubicle. Spotting my increasing distress, the now somewhat irritated dispenser of oversized elastic bands takes it upon himself to explain the system. The large yellow band Im clutching is indicative of the length of time I can spend in this wondrous place. He gestures towards a set of 4 different coloured lights high on the wall above the pool. When the yella light flashes, you get out he explains. Should I have brought a guest with me today, they could also have had a band of their own, hence his enquiry as to whether or not I required any subsequent bands. This would presumably ensure no-one feels left out, or reassure those who lack the ability to retain the information when the yella light flashes, you get out for 60 minutes.
This was seemingly the last hurdle to negotiate and I was free to slide gracefully into the water. It soon became apparent that it would probably be more appropriate to leap in to the water whilst shrieking like a horny chimp, limbs flailing as if aflame. This appeared to be the technique that so many of my contemporaries had adopted. What also soon became apparent was that I need not feel embarrassed or ashamed of my semi-naked body. I may be pasty with love handles and slight man-boobs, but its all relative. And here, surrounded by a veritable sea of blubber, back-acne and bad tattoos, I felt like Brad Pitt.
The best plan, I decided, was to make my way to the deep end and do some lengths. In order to do this however, I needed to negotiate the heaving mass of people occupying the shallow to mid depth. This largely consisted of infants who appeared to be drowning as Mum and Dad offered gentle encouragement like Kick yer legs man, idiot and why its only watta man and its ganna gan in yer hair, idiot and also nah yer cannit gan on the slide cos youve gotta learn ta swin before ya hollydaze, idiot. Keeping eyes peeled for suspicious floaters and safe in the knowledge that urine turns purple in swimming pools, I ventured cautiously under the bit of rope designed to separate actual swimmers from casual drowners.
On arrival at the deep end I felt more comfortable. In the company of fairly normal looking people I was able to swim merrily across and back the pool; until a claxon sounded. I glanced to the magical box of lights, thinking it surely couldnt be time for the yella band wearers to depart. And it wasnt. Something else was happening. The waters began to swell and I began to bob lightly like ocean debris. Momentarily, I was fearful that someone had removed a giant plug and I braced myself, ready to be sucked down into the bowels of the leisure centre. The excited cries of several small boys then informed me I was about to be subject to The Wave Machine in all its glory. Deciding that I had no wish to feel like I had fallen from a life raft and was about to be washed to an unpleasant death, I manoeuvred myself to the edge of the pool to observe the ensuing chaos.
Oddly, the now rapidly swelling and falling water seemed to act as a cue for many parents to bring forth their babies and toddlers, stick them in a flotation device and submit them to a gruelling motion ride. Choosing to ignore the screaming and obvious distress, parents exchange joyful remarks as little Kai or Kaytee bobs up and down frantically. I watched a group of non-swimmers daring each other past the 1.5 metre line before their amusement became anguish amid much flapping and chlorine-swallowing.
This was the cue for the lifeguards. All dressed in matching attire and seemingly all under the age of 16, theyre like the Hitler-Youth: with whistles. For its a well known fact that any incident that occurs in a public swimming pool can be corrected via the medium of furious whistle blowing. You¡¯re running on the wet tiles: Peeeeeeeeeep! Youre bombing too close to that Granny: Peeeeeeeeep! You¡re drowning: ¡®Peeeeeeeep! Its all good stuff. Only this time, the adventurous non-swimmer was not aided by the furious whistle blowing and still appeared to be attempting to escape peril by swallowing the entire pool and flapping like a snared chicken. Thinking on his feet, the lifeguard reached for the backup plan: the often-seen-but-rarely-used bit of net on a big long stick.
Just before the point where the non-swimmer was about to be lifted from the deep end like a garden-centre goldfish, he recovered his footing and started breathing oxygen again instead of chlorine. In fairness, had the lifeguard earlier abandoned the technique of blow whistle until you turn blue in the face and simply shouted Just put your feet down you pillock, the near-crisis could have been averted. As it was, no one was really hurt, the wave machine ceased and the lifeguard sat back down where he was free to whistle out a warning to anyone daring enough to engage in poolside petting.
Now that the machine which brought the high seas to the heart of the town centre had relented, I was free to return to swimming. Impeded only by the occasional armband-toting aimless doggy-paddler, I began to relax a little. Twelve minutes later however, the claxon was blaring again, the waves started and up once more the pool became a simmering people soup. This was much to everyones delight, seemingly unable to amuse themselves between bouts of pump powered surge. Everyone except me, that was. Id had enough, and regardless of whether or not my yella light had flashed, I was getting out.
Before I could trade in my elastic band for a locker key I had to negotiate the poolside communal showers: a necessity if you wish to return home smelling ever-so-slightly less of chlorine. Bagging yourself a free shower is difficult though, as most people are washing like its the first time theyve seen clean running water. Once again my ignorance of the swimming pool routine is highlighted by my negating to bring with me the seemingly customary bottle of Wash n Go.
So, clean(er) I regain my key and survive the small clothing explosion that occurs on opening the locker. Shuffling into the nearest cubicle with armfuls of shoes and underpants, I set about getting clothed as quickly as possible. For my entertainment as I dress, the leisure centre informs me that Kelly iz a slag and Pliers shat in da pool. Given that everything in the changing area is soaked in second hand pool water, it is difficult to obtain and retain a state of dryness. Particularly as your mind is on other things: namely, what do you have to do to be known as Pliers?
And with that the ordeal was over. I left feeling uncomfortably moist and smelling like a superloo. I had a substantial percentage of the pools contents deep inside my left ear and host to a new and exciting family of verrukas. And my watch was broken. All of it made me yearn for those two weeks in the summer when I can relax by a pool with no claxon, no wave machine and no oversized elastic bands. Yella or otherwise.
Going swimming is a nice thing to do. When on holiday, popping down to the pool for a few lengths or splashing around in the sea is fun and relaxing. It¡s nice to cool off, get a little gentle exercise and just generally chill out. For two weeks of the year you think I must do this more often. Then you get back home and remember why you dont do it more often.
The local council run leisure centre is worlds apart from the oasis of calm you happily floated about in when abroad. Its old, its noisy, its unpleasant and above all it appears to be THE place where fat, ugly people come to show off their tattoos. It also proves to be another one of those experiences where everyone seems to know what theyre doing apart from me. Thats because its not just as simple as whipping on your trunks and bombing in the deep end. Oh no. Theres a procedure to follow that forms yet another terrifying ordeal.
First of all you have to pay. Taken aback at the cost of lolling around in a chlorine filled hell-hole for an hour I ask the surly woman just how Im supposed to swim after coughing up the required arm and a leg just to get in. Or perhaps theres a facility available on-site for me to donate one of my kidneys should I need in future to cover the cost of entry for a family of 4. Unperturbed by my sarcasm she duly parts me from my cash and asks me if I need a locker token. I assure her I do not intend to swim fully clothed so perhaps that would be a logical presumption. The purchase of the small plastic disc for the locker sets me back a further 20p. Confused as to why this fairly essential addition is not included in the price of entry (maybe next time Ill just drive down in my trunks and save 20p) I brave the changing area.
And what a delightful place it is. Its moist, smelly and filled with members of the general public in various stages of undress. I decide the best thing to do is grab the nearest cubicle. But that cubicle has no lock on the door. So I try another one, which also doesnt have a lock and in addition seems to have played host to a small fire. After 2 further attempts to locate a cubicle that will successfully ensure my temporary nudity will be concealed, I find a lockable cubicle. It may be adorned with the public service message Daz lvs Keighlea 4 eva 2K6 and smell faintly of urine, but it will do the job.
After changing into my bathing attire so quickly I only just avoid friction burns, its time to tackle the locker. Previous research has proved that only a combination of the techniques cramming and punching will ensure your clothes and valuables fit snugly into the allotted space. Be aware that just when you think you ve cracked it theres bound to be a shoe still to go in that youve overlooked. A repeated shoulder charging of the door is needed to make sure it closes before using 20ps worth of plastic coin to lock it. A split second later I notice Im still wearing my watch: my non-water resistant watch.
Its now time to hand my locker key to another courteous and considerate employee in exchange for an oversized elastic band. Dya want two bands?he asks. Erm, I dont knowdo I? I reply, making it painfully obvious to all concerned that I am well and truly out of my element. Well are there more than one of you? he asks. Confused by this seemingly deeply philosophical question I begin to wish Id stayed at home. Or at least stayed in the cubicle. Spotting my increasing distress, the now somewhat irritated dispenser of oversized elastic bands takes it upon himself to explain the system. The large yellow band Im clutching is indicative of the length of time I can spend in this wondrous place. He gestures towards a set of 4 different coloured lights high on the wall above the pool. When the yella light flashes, you get out he explains. Should I have brought a guest with me today, they could also have had a band of their own, hence his enquiry as to whether or not I required any subsequent bands. This would presumably ensure no-one feels left out, or reassure those who lack the ability to retain the information when the yella light flashes, you get out for 60 minutes.
This was seemingly the last hurdle to negotiate and I was free to slide gracefully into the water. It soon became apparent that it would probably be more appropriate to leap in to the water whilst shrieking like a horny chimp, limbs flailing as if aflame. This appeared to be the technique that so many of my contemporaries had adopted. What also soon became apparent was that I need not feel embarrassed or ashamed of my semi-naked body. I may be pasty with love handles and slight man-boobs, but its all relative. And here, surrounded by a veritable sea of blubber, back-acne and bad tattoos, I felt like Brad Pitt.
The best plan, I decided, was to make my way to the deep end and do some lengths. In order to do this however, I needed to negotiate the heaving mass of people occupying the shallow to mid depth. This largely consisted of infants who appeared to be drowning as Mum and Dad offered gentle encouragement like Kick yer legs man, idiot and why its only watta man and its ganna gan in yer hair, idiot and also nah yer cannit gan on the slide cos youve gotta learn ta swin before ya hollydaze, idiot. Keeping eyes peeled for suspicious floaters and safe in the knowledge that urine turns purple in swimming pools, I ventured cautiously under the bit of rope designed to separate actual swimmers from casual drowners.
On arrival at the deep end I felt more comfortable. In the company of fairly normal looking people I was able to swim merrily across and back the pool; until a claxon sounded. I glanced to the magical box of lights, thinking it surely couldnt be time for the yella band wearers to depart. And it wasnt. Something else was happening. The waters began to swell and I began to bob lightly like ocean debris. Momentarily, I was fearful that someone had removed a giant plug and I braced myself, ready to be sucked down into the bowels of the leisure centre. The excited cries of several small boys then informed me I was about to be subject to The Wave Machine in all its glory. Deciding that I had no wish to feel like I had fallen from a life raft and was about to be washed to an unpleasant death, I manoeuvred myself to the edge of the pool to observe the ensuing chaos.
Oddly, the now rapidly swelling and falling water seemed to act as a cue for many parents to bring forth their babies and toddlers, stick them in a flotation device and submit them to a gruelling motion ride. Choosing to ignore the screaming and obvious distress, parents exchange joyful remarks as little Kai or Kaytee bobs up and down frantically. I watched a group of non-swimmers daring each other past the 1.5 metre line before their amusement became anguish amid much flapping and chlorine-swallowing.
This was the cue for the lifeguards. All dressed in matching attire and seemingly all under the age of 16, theyre like the Hitler-Youth: with whistles. For its a well known fact that any incident that occurs in a public swimming pool can be corrected via the medium of furious whistle blowing. You¡¯re running on the wet tiles: Peeeeeeeeeep! Youre bombing too close to that Granny: Peeeeeeeeep! You¡re drowning: ¡®Peeeeeeeep! Its all good stuff. Only this time, the adventurous non-swimmer was not aided by the furious whistle blowing and still appeared to be attempting to escape peril by swallowing the entire pool and flapping like a snared chicken. Thinking on his feet, the lifeguard reached for the backup plan: the often-seen-but-rarely-used bit of net on a big long stick.
Just before the point where the non-swimmer was about to be lifted from the deep end like a garden-centre goldfish, he recovered his footing and started breathing oxygen again instead of chlorine. In fairness, had the lifeguard earlier abandoned the technique of blow whistle until you turn blue in the face and simply shouted Just put your feet down you pillock, the near-crisis could have been averted. As it was, no one was really hurt, the wave machine ceased and the lifeguard sat back down where he was free to whistle out a warning to anyone daring enough to engage in poolside petting.
Now that the machine which brought the high seas to the heart of the town centre had relented, I was free to return to swimming. Impeded only by the occasional armband-toting aimless doggy-paddler, I began to relax a little. Twelve minutes later however, the claxon was blaring again, the waves started and up once more the pool became a simmering people soup. This was much to everyones delight, seemingly unable to amuse themselves between bouts of pump powered surge. Everyone except me, that was. Id had enough, and regardless of whether or not my yella light had flashed, I was getting out.
Before I could trade in my elastic band for a locker key I had to negotiate the poolside communal showers: a necessity if you wish to return home smelling ever-so-slightly less of chlorine. Bagging yourself a free shower is difficult though, as most people are washing like its the first time theyve seen clean running water. Once again my ignorance of the swimming pool routine is highlighted by my negating to bring with me the seemingly customary bottle of Wash n Go.
So, clean(er) I regain my key and survive the small clothing explosion that occurs on opening the locker. Shuffling into the nearest cubicle with armfuls of shoes and underpants, I set about getting clothed as quickly as possible. For my entertainment as I dress, the leisure centre informs me that Kelly iz a slag and Pliers shat in da pool. Given that everything in the changing area is soaked in second hand pool water, it is difficult to obtain and retain a state of dryness. Particularly as your mind is on other things: namely, what do you have to do to be known as Pliers?
And with that the ordeal was over. I left feeling uncomfortably moist and smelling like a superloo. I had a substantial percentage of the pools contents deep inside my left ear and host to a new and exciting family of verrukas. And my watch was broken. All of it made me yearn for those two weeks in the summer when I can relax by a pool with no claxon, no wave machine and no oversized elastic bands. Yella or otherwise.
