The Beach Diaries #15
* Six women pass, each pushing double, or even triple, pushchairs, laden with small children. While in reality it’s obviously just a child minding club, I prefer to think that Ol’ Dirty Bastard returned from the grave for a single day, a little over nine months ago, and wandered, priapic, into a Women’s Institute meeting, like a lusty Eric Draven. (“Can’t cum all the time.”)
* I’m always extra careful not to drown when Hot Lifeguard isn’t on duty. Life’s too short to be wasting such opportunities. I really need to sneak a look at the rota, so I’m not needlessly dragging my brick armbands all the way down here.
* Another sitcom cliché becomes real (one I even used myself in Volume II). Man 1 strolls on the prom, while Man 2 sits on a nearby bench.
Man 1: “Hiya.”
Man 2. A small beat, then: “Hello.”
Man 1, scowling, and turning his back, revealing a bluetooth earpiece in the process. “Whereareya? Where are ya?” Man 2 looks at the floor.
* A bell-end shakes sand out of a Macbook.
* Almost immediately, and for the rest of your life, all black tattoos look absolutely shit. It only really hits you when nobody’s wearing any tops; and the tans don’t help either. Full-colour sleeves stay looking pretty sweet, but for everyone else, however awesome you think it was the week you got it inked, and however much of a rockstar you think you look, you’re just walking around draped in smudgy biro.
* A big family amble past.
“Why do old ladies sit on benches with their legs open?” asks the father. “To keep the flies out of their ice cream!” Everybody laughs uproariously, especially the son.
“’Ere,” says the mum to the son, angrily, “how did you get that?!”
* A man walks by with his girlfriend. On his shoulder, a tattoo of the word ‘REBEL’. On his head, a fedora. Smash the system, there, James Dean.
* Another old man in roller skates. He spends the afternoon happily clacking up and down the prom, with a wide stance that makes me want to lay flat on the concrete as he takes another pass, and have him skate right over me.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” says a fat father, laughing in a derisory way. He points the skater out to his family. “Old man on skates!” he says, “Look at him!” As they all laugh at the carefree old man, I’m glad he’s out of earshot (although I’m sure he’d give no fuck), and hope they all get eaten by a shark.
* The hotter the weather, the hotter the women you see out and about. That’s just a fact. The Catholic Church tried to hush it up in the Sixteenth Century, by declaring it heresy, but the truth will out. This is down to one of two things. Maybe it’s a psychological illusion, based on the equation of Heat = Less Clothes = More Attractive. For anyone who’s physically a 6 or above in attractiveness, less clothes probably means +2 to their out-of-10 hotness score. 6’s become 8’s, 8’s become 10’s, and 9’s and 10’s become “Holy shit, I would cut my own face off and wear it like a hat if you asked, just to have shared a single moment with you, for I am wretched.” And if you’re one of those unfortunate 6 or below types (unless you’re a butterface), less clothes will usually result in a -2 to your score. I should have been a scientist. So anyway, either it’s that, or a weather-based riff on Naomi Campbell’s famous line that “I don’t get out of bed for less than £10,000.” Once the mercury pushes above 28 degrees, the people who are beautiful enough to actually be famous leave their ethereal sanctuaries and grace us with their presence.
* There’s a hot blonde.
“I like your…” she says, pointing in my direction.
“…unicycle,” she finishes, addressing a kid who I didn’t see passing between us. I almost shout “I own a unicycle too, you know! Not because I’m a hipster, but because in my teens, I wanted to join the circus!” But I don’t. Maybe I should bring it down and ride it under the pier. Way, way under, until my lungs are creaking.
* Two small boys dig a hole in the sand.
“Mr. Bean!” cries one.
“I’m a Nazi!” the other, “exterminate everyone!”