The Beach Diaries #6
* A pasty white guy swaggers slowly along the prom, gangsta style. His low-slung, straight-outta-Compton jeans expose six inches of brightly coloured Simpsons boxers.
* The smell of candy floss and sugary treats drifts on the breeze. If this was a cartoon, there’d be a pink, wavy line, pricking all our noses as it floated by. The booths that sell such delights are just around the corner, but I think of a clown, merrily farting his arse off with honking trumps that smell oh so sweet.
* Overheard conversation snippets. Woman:
“I would do things for money, but I wouldn’t purposely lose limbs for money.”
Ric Flair/Jimmy Savile
Nick Frost x 3
* Top three sentences I think while at the beach:
“They’re too fat to be wearing that.”
“Hey, is that Nick Frost?!”
* A beautiful woman passes with her mother. The gnarled, withered take on the younger woman’s pristine features is like some awful Passion Play adaptation of Dorian Gray. Fuck you, Father Time.
* “It’s not a bald spot, it’s a solar panel for a sex machine!” reads the t-shirt of a man with a full head of hair.
* The door to the dog waste bin is broken. It lays open, as plastic bags filled with turds bake in the sun, like the cracked safe in a casino heist that went sour.
* Overheard conversation snippets. Nine year old girl to her parents:
“…this white woman came out the toilet, then this paki came out, and the paki…”
* Each summer takes me one summer further from the hot twenty-somethings and one closer to the Big Shirtless Rons, issuing an internal “Phwoar” at passing girls you’ve probably got a decade on, like Sid fucking James, while trying to ignore the increasingly distant footsteps of your fleeing youth.
* A fifty-something man with grey, fuzzy chest hair eats a Calippo like he’s fellating it.
* Hot female jogger with black labs. “Tarmac and lycra-induced cameltoes are a bruising combination,” thinks the depraved punchline writer who lives inside my skull.
* That thing people get – the womb-ache – when the sight of babies or kids makes them all broody; I think I have that with dogs. Every dog I see, I want to steal (but not really, because they would be sad). Maybe something super-exciting will happen today, and a billion people will read the Beach Diaries, and I’ll be able to afford to move to a place that allows dogs. Then, finally, I will be happy.
* A runaway circus train crashes into the pier. The severed head of an acrobat splashes into the river. A pair of lions make a break for the crazy golf and devour screaming chil… nah, fuck it, that didn’t happen. Worth a stat bump though. I’ll yet have my dog.