The Beach Diaries #8
* Summer has truly begun, the lifeguards are here. The lifeguard uniform is a red shorts and yellow t-shirt ensemble, the shirts adorned with red lettering that reads BEACH PATROL. These things are not coincidence. Firstly, we all know the cultural significance of red text on yellow.
Secondly, the man himself once released a song, nay, a rap, entitled, of all things: Beach Patrol. Unless you’re a wrestling nerd, there’s no way you believe me, so click here to see for yourself. Just take a look at these lyrics.
I was walking down the beach looking for some action,
Had my radio set on a rappin’ rock station.
Saw a girl drowning, sticky situations.
She wanted me to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
These are apposite words, because the really hot lifeguard from last year is back again. I’m probably going to spend most of June-thru-August pondering on the perfect time to fake a drowning, so’s she’ll be the one to dive in and personally slurp all the salt water from my flooded lungs.
So now we’ve established that the lifeguards at Littlehampton beach act as the oceanic safety arm of the Hulkamania franchise, can we expect to see Brutus Beefcake and Brian Knobbs pulling shifts during the tourist season? Will the Hulkster arrive one day, posing on the breakwater, and telling a story about how Andre the Giant once pooed in a hotel bathtub and filled it right up to the taps? Maybe that’s my in.
* I pass a man walking towards me on the prom. It’s Big Shirtless Ron (See Diaries #3 and #4).
“Please,” I beg telepathically, “please give me some material so I don’t have to fill my blog by harping on and on about the hot lifeguard. PS, I know it’s in your nature, so it’s asking a lot, but please don’t fuck her.”
* Despite there being free space everywhere, a monstrous Jeremy Kyle family sit themselves down a full three inches from me. The mother has wandered loose from Hellboy II’s troll market, and they talk, like pigs gifted with speech, about disliking each other’s children, having sex when they get home, and the appropriate times to be wearing no knickers. All of these things are spoken of three inches from me. Their feral children run in circles, screeching in my ear. Fifty yards away, BSR ogles ladies without a care in the world.
“Hello, Rog!” says an older man, calling up to the prom from down on the sand. Another older man, arm in arm with a young Thai bride, throws him a confused, almost angry, look.
“Sorry,” says Older Man 1, chuckling, “you look like a friend of mine.” Older Man 2 walks away with his young bride, stony faced.
Ten minutes pass.
“Alright, Keith?” yells Older Man 1, to a third older man, passing by.
“Alright, mate!” replies Keith, who goes over to chat. One out of two ain’t bad.
Then, another older man (Older Man 4) joins them, and this is where the blog gets awkward. It’s clear that Older Men 3 and 4 are gay gentlemen. It is homophobic to speculate that “Rog” was indeed Rog, a man who Older Man 1 has known through, let’s say, cottaging, hence his frosty reaction? It is a bit, isn’t it? Am I a terrible person? But in hindsight, Older Man 1 seemed so sure, and maybe Rog’s sour reaction was down to his suddenly having to pretend not to know an old friend he’d recognise through a gloryhole, much less in broad daylight, now that he’s got himself an internet wife.
* A family of three sit nearby. Parents in their forties – the father shaven headed, wearing a vest, and covered in tattoos – and a fifteen year old daughter. The mum is sat on the pier. Dad moves in, spreading her legs apart and mock thrusting at her with his groin.
“Dad! Dad, dad, dad, dad, dad, dad!” shrieks the girl, excitedly pointing at an item on a flyer for a Chinese restaurant. The dad inspects the flyer, pointedly agreeing with his daughter’s selection. Then, while rubbing his hands over his chest as though he’s oiling it, he declares in a triumphant, sing-songy voice:
“Suck my diiiiiiiiiiiick!”
Even as I write it down, I know it makes no sense. I’ll tell the readers, I think, I’ll tell them that it was even more confusing in person. I don’t try to make sense of things. I merely catalogue them.
* At the toilets by the East Beach Cafe, someone has wedged the entrance door open with a bin, exposing the whole interior of the toilets to anyone outside. It’s such a gross invasion of privacy, I have to forgo my usual ritual of loudly masturbating directly into the urinal.
* Hot lifeguard sits down, a few yards away from me.
“Do you have a date for Randy Savage’s funeral?” I don’t say.