the required level, the lifeguard on duty would operate a pedal, which released the built-up water in an explosive torrent, catapulting the screaming rider into the tube and down the slide.
As a lifeguard it was the best of the stations on the rota (shallow end, deep end, flash flood, splash pool), because it was the most fun. The kids absolutely loved it, which was infectious. The adults were almost as easy to wind up; either by withholding the flood blast for an inordinate amount of time, or by unleashing it suddenly at the start without any warning at all.
However, one of the most gratifying tricks one could play at the flash-flood station was one we always reserved for the most obnoxious and annoying children. They would appear at the top of the slide, often resembling the vicious little thugs that held Sean Jeffries and myself hostage, and I would instruct them to lie on their fronts with their heads facing the top of the slide and, on the count of three, scream as loudly as they could. As they opened their mouths, I would kick the release pedal and blast them in the face with twenty gallons of water.
Even as I type this, I’m thinking what an absolute arsehole I was. Sure those kids were annoying but they were only kids. Perhaps the poem was a subconscious admonishment of the man I feared I was becoming. A power-hungry maniac, frustrated by the impotence of the tiny authority he was permitted to wield. I wasn’t referring to myself with the literal impotence stuff – I was nineteen and doing very well in that department, thank you very much. Never in the pool though, that was illegal.
Whatever I was, it was a long way from the nervous young boy whose Saturday-morning swimming practice was often marred by nervous headaches and nausea. Particularly on one occasion, where I vomited boiling orange sick into the toilet bowl in the boys’ changing room and had my tummy rubbed by my swimming instructor. I dimly recall feeling vaguely uncomfortable as this man in his forties vigorously massaged my abdomen. Nothing untoward transpired – this isn’t some heartfelt confession about being taken advantage of – I’m certain he was trying to help me, but I do remember being embarrassed by his touch. Despite his doubtless honourable intent, the idea of administering this kind of tactile therapy to a seven-year-old nowadays would doubtless set great hooting sirens off across the country and rightly so; although perhaps it’s a slight shame for the majority who act with solely good intentions. I remember breaking down in front of my form tutor, Mr Calway, once. I was having a few emotional problems, teenage stuff but nevertheless real and raw. He was being extra hard on me as a means of keeping me focused but it backfired. I asked to speak to him privately and attempted to explain how I was feeling, only to unleash a torrent of tears. He leaned over and patted me on the shoulder when what I really wanted was a hug, which procedural etiquette prevented him from administering.
Not sure where I was going with that, but you’ll be delighted to know all this has been leading up to an account of the third and final swimming-related incident which I regard as a formative moment in my journey towards becoming an actor and a comic.
The Mars Bar Incident
You might remember Mr Skinner as the teacher who had helped to soothe my bloodstained face following my run-in with the brick wall in Class 5, but he was also our PE and swimming teacher. And a pretty cool one at that. He wasn’t particularly old – junior to the beardless Mr Miller by ten or fifteen years – nevertheless Mr Skinner sported a great full-face beard, which not only projected strength but also suggested the ability to grow hair out of your face. He was tall as well which made him physically imposing for us little people, although that was never his intention.
He had a no-nonsense air about him and his default demeanour was usually one of intense seriousness.
As a lifeguard it was the best of the stations on the rota (shallow end, deep end, flash flood, splash pool), because it was the most fun. The kids absolutely loved it, which was infectious. The adults were almost as easy to wind up; either by withholding the flood blast for an inordinate amount of time, or by unleashing it suddenly at the start without any warning at all.
However, one of the most gratifying tricks one could play at the flash-flood station was one we always reserved for the most obnoxious and annoying children. They would appear at the top of the slide, often resembling the vicious little thugs that held Sean Jeffries and myself hostage, and I would instruct them to lie on their fronts with their heads facing the top of the slide and, on the count of three, scream as loudly as they could. As they opened their mouths, I would kick the release pedal and blast them in the face with twenty gallons of water.
Even as I type this, I’m thinking what an absolute arsehole I was. Sure those kids were annoying but they were only kids. Perhaps the poem was a subconscious admonishment of the man I feared I was becoming. A power-hungry maniac, frustrated by the impotence of the tiny authority he was permitted to wield. I wasn’t referring to myself with the literal impotence stuff – I was nineteen and doing very well in that department, thank you very much. Never in the pool though, that was illegal.
Whatever I was, it was a long way from the nervous young boy whose Saturday-morning swimming practice was often marred by nervous headaches and nausea. Particularly on one occasion, where I vomited boiling orange sick into the toilet bowl in the boys’ changing room and had my tummy rubbed by my swimming instructor. I dimly recall feeling vaguely uncomfortable as this man in his forties vigorously massaged my abdomen. Nothing untoward transpired – this isn’t some heartfelt confession about being taken advantage of – I’m certain he was trying to help me, but I do remember being embarrassed by his touch. Despite his doubtless honourable intent, the idea of administering this kind of tactile therapy to a seven-year-old nowadays would doubtless set great hooting sirens off across the country and rightly so; although perhaps it’s a slight shame for the majority who act with solely good intentions. I remember breaking down in front of my form tutor, Mr Calway, once. I was having a few emotional problems, teenage stuff but nevertheless real and raw. He was being extra hard on me as a means of keeping me focused but it backfired. I asked to speak to him privately and attempted to explain how I was feeling, only to unleash a torrent of tears. He leaned over and patted me on the shoulder when what I really wanted was a hug, which procedural etiquette prevented him from administering.
Not sure where I was going with that, but you’ll be delighted to know all this has been leading up to an account of the third and final swimming-related incident which I regard as a formative moment in my journey towards becoming an actor and a comic.
The Mars Bar Incident
You might remember Mr Skinner as the teacher who had helped to soothe my bloodstained face following my run-in with the brick wall in Class 5, but he was also our PE and swimming teacher. And a pretty cool one at that. He wasn’t particularly old – junior to the beardless Mr Miller by ten or fifteen years – nevertheless Mr Skinner sported a great full-face beard, which not only projected strength but also suggested the ability to grow hair out of your face. He was tall as well which made him physically imposing for us little people, although that was never his intention.
He had a no-nonsense air about him and his default demeanour was usually one of intense seriousness.
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