One day in 1985, a four year old me stood on the side of a pool about to embark on my first swimming lesson.
The child next to me sat on the edge of the pool and did the biggest shit I have even to this day, ever seen.
He then plopped it in the pool and laughed.
Everyone jumped out
It was scooped out with a net.
Everyone jumped in again.
Apart from me. I kicked and screamed in my refusal to enter the putrid water and when that didn’t get my point across, I bit my mother on the thigh, so hard that I drew blood.
That was a big enough crime to be hauled into the changing rooms for a smacked arse and to be thrown in the car and taken home because of my tantrum.
Ever since that day, I have not set foot in a swimming pool, swirling cesspits of shit, other peoples hair, skin, snot and used platers that they are.
I argued my way through school. I refused each and every school swimming lesson I was dragged to. By the age of 10, I had realised that if I took enough laxatives the night before then I could genuinely get out of the lessons. This led to many investigations into my ‘stomach problems’ (I am sorry the NHS, I think it was me who bankrupted you with my fakery) but anything was better than sharing water with other people.
I can’t swim and I don’t care.
Oh, it’s okay I will never drown, because I will never go near enough to water. I hate it. I’m not a fan of boats either, and in the event of a natural disaster, I will either be the first one to die or the overlord of the New World (Which Incidentally, I would name “NewSlough”) so I will take my chances.
When I was pregnant, a few people tried to talk me into doing aqua-natal classes.
“It’s fun” they said, “we all have a giggle.”
Oh my God. We all know what happens to your pelvic floor when you are pregnant, don’t we? It results in mummy dribbles.
The thought of jumping about in a pool having a laugh while stood in close proximity to the baby weakend pelvic floors of twenty other women filled me with horror. Especially if they were going to laugh. Laugh and leak, that what happens when you are eight months gone.
I have sat on the edge of pools and watched friends and family merrily swim away in the retch inducing quagmire of other people’s filth. I don’t care if there is chlorine in the water, chlorine doesn’t stop hairs falling off of heads or toe cheese being dislodged from beneath fungi infested toenails – and the amount of people who don’t wipe their arses properly! It’s enough to make me puke just thinking about it.
That thing where people take water into their mouths then spit it out like a fountain – there is now saliva mixed with that water. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you people?
I wouldn’t share a bath with anyone, so I wouldn’t get in a pool with anyone. I don’t want to share water you vile creatures. Even if you had a total decontamination shower in bleach before hand, I would still say no.
While sat on the side of pools over the years, I have seen some horrors.
Those pools with swim up bars – do you think people actually get out to go to the loo after a couple of drinks? Because they don’t. Here, come sit next to me and wallow in my piss with a lager!
So swimming can fuck off. And if you go swimming, you aren’t coming near me until you’ve scrubbed with boiling detol.