While I am by no means a chunky monkey, as my third decade of existence creeps ever closer, the fact that I do less than no exercise, love me some cake, burn my way through my fair share of Silk Cut and suffer with the occasional bad back has begun to play on my mind a little, so me and the missus decided to do something about it and earlier this year I started tearing up the local pool like a short, pasty, terribly unfit Michael Phelps.
As I am not especially fond of the general public and because I work for a living, we venture to the pool as late as we can. However, while we miss most of the folk who frequent the place we still have to deal with:
The naked old man
Who insists on keeping his withered tackle on display for as long as humanly possible without warranting arrest for public indecency. The best way to do this is to hold naked conversations with the other creepy naked old fella who happens to be there, pausing mid-change to pass judgement on the flavour of Quorn mince, or to struggle to remember the name of that new pill the doctor has put them on, preferably as close to the lockers or pool entrance as possible so everyone has to pass them at some point… Ew.
It may be a prudish opinion to hold, but if you ask me no conversation is so important or engrossing that it warrants exposed bollocks in public…
And speaking of creepy sex pest types:
The goggle-wearing pervert
Funny that they only try swimming a length under water when one of the ladies in the pool is swimming the other way, isn’t it?
The deluded fat person
Who turns up complete with swimming cap, waterproof watch to time themselves with and tumble turns, plus leaves their locker key-wristband thing at the edge of the pool, because that, rather than their mass and circumference, will obviously prevent them from cutting through the water like a torpedo… Uh-huh.
They head straight for the ‘fast’ lane and proceed to swim into everyone else there, lecturing them- between gasping breaths- on lane etiquette and which side they should be on, failing to realise they take up the whole thing.
But at least they’re putting the effort in.
If you weren’t paying attention, you’d think there was someone drowning in that whirling mass of churned up water that is slowly moving toward you. Fear not though, the lifeguard hasn’t moved; it’s just someone whose front crawl technique peaked when they were seven. This makes each of their lengths look like a strange, perpetual, horizontal belly flop and swimming near them like being in the wave pool at Center Parcs.
No matter how busy the pool is, this person has a regimen and they are fucking sticking to it. If that means ten lengths followed by five minutes treading water in the middle of the deep end, getting in everyone else’s way, so be it. Fuck everyone else.
The woman with a face like a slapped arse
The more Daily Mail your local area is, the more likely you are to encounter one.
They swim the same way all mums swim- head held high out of the water because wet hair equals FUUUUUCK for some reason, lips pursed, frown, no sense of direction. If there is one there at the same time as you, expect them to swim into you, tut and give you stink-face at least once. At least. It’s not an accident, it’s the only physical contact they get that doesn’t come from a cat or dog. Pity them…
Still, all this is overwhelmingly preferable to the nuggets you find at gyms. Thoughts…?