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In at the Deep End
From BoF 2
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
don’t 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. It’s old, it’s
noisy, it’s 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 they’re doing apart from
me. That’s because it’s not just as simple as whipping on your trunks and
bombing in the deep end. Oh no. There’s 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 I’m supposed to swim after coughing up the required ‘arm and a leg’
just to get in. Or perhaps there’s 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 I’ll just drive down in my trunks and save 20p) I brave the changing
area.
And what a delightful place it is. It’s 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 doesn’t 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 ♥s 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 there’s bound to be a shoe still to
go in that you’ve 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
I’m 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. ‘D’ya want
two bands?’ he asks. ‘Erm, I don’t know…do 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 I’d 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 I’m 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 it’s 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 it’s only watta man and
its ganna gan in yer hair, idiot’ and also ‘nah yer cannit gan on the slide cos
you’ve 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 couldn’t be time for the ‘yella’ band wearers to
depart. And it wasn’t. 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, they’re like the Hitler-Youth: with whistles. For it’s 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!’ You’re bombing too close to that Granny: ‘Peeeeeeeeep!’ You’re
drowning: ‘Peeeeeeeep!’ It’s 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 everyone’s delight, seemingly unable to amuse themselves between bouts
of pump powered surge. Everyone except me, that was. I’d 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 it’s the first time
they’ve 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 pool’s 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.
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