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e-med Arabic
I know me t'interweb two point nowt and I want me chuffin' Big Fat Feed of RSS fed to me.
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I Win
I don't believe in miracles...







We survived the trek, although I’m still unable to walk, a day and a half later.

We decided beforehand that probably the best way for us to bond with our fellow trekkers was if we made helicopter noises (chka-chka-chka-chka etc.) and took it in turns to pretend to be the helicopter pilot or the rear gunner. We could refuse to stop and rest anywhere except in large clearings, communicate by making radio-static sounds before everything we said, and warn people not to approach us from the rear in any circumstances. Sadly, the only way this would properly work was if we kept it up for the entire duration. At first people would find it funny, then weird and hopefully, after three days, quite frightening. But we’re lazy people, so we gave up on the idea.

Day one started badly with an inexplicable trip to an orchid farm, where you could buy expensive jewellery, followed by an inexplicable trip to a snake farm, where you could watch snakes kept in confined conditions and then bullied for a gala show. Fortunately, after that we got to do some walking. Uphill. Quite a lot of walking, and almost all of it very much uphill. This is why I still can’t move my legs properly. At the top, a hill tribe camp awaited us, but the first-hand knowledge I’d now gained as to why they’re called hill tribes wasn’t going to get me there. I was actually pouring with sweat and then, unfortunately, we came to a waterfall where a man was selling, amongst other refreshments, beer. I jokingly said we should have one. Fat Dan took it as a challenge. Fat Dan takes anything as a challenge. He was at the front the whole way, except for one point we’ll come to later.

Assuming we’d gotten the worst part over with, we had a beer each. As it transpires, the worst part wasn’t over, it was next. Followed by the second worst part and then the third worst part, both of which, due to the worsening dehydration and pounding headache, felt in their turn like the worst parts. It’s unlikely I’d have made it except for two things: firstly there was a Jewish girl, more like a princess actually, from LA who started complaining at the bottom of the hill and became even more determined to hate everything as time went on. I had to beat her. Secondly at one point, around the time when I kept losing my footing because I was exhausted and wearing a £7.50 pair of trainers with no grips I bought especially on Khao San Road, Fat Dan hoved up to me and starting making helicopter noises.

There was a guide in all this. You might have missed him. We usually did. He tended to remain just out of sight, around the next bit of jungle, although he was dogged (no, not like that), determinedly by Fat Dan. Mr Whiskey was his name. Not his real one. I don’t know his real name. Mr Whiskey was more appropriate, anyway. He was either massively hungover or incoherently drunk. Every day. When he was actually in view he was quite minimalist and hated explaining or pointing out anything. If you asked him a question he would reply incoherently and then usually laugh and then talk about something else in perfect English that no one was interested in and then stop and have a beer.

We did make it to the top eventually. Trekking is not a race, but I could tell Fat Dan wanted to win it. That’s why, at the last possible moment, I ran past him and up the steps into the village whilst singing the Rocky theme tune and emulating the bit where Stallone reaches the top of the monument in Rocky I and jumps around with his arms in the air.

I was soaked through with my own sweat. So was my bag. I stank. I felt great.

Day two was more sedate. The princess quit. Most of the walking was downhill which meant the competition du jour was to see who would fall over the least. I lost. I still have the cuts. Mr Whiskey had two beers for breakfast and then stopped to throw up after the first incline. He seemed twitchy. That night one of our group asked him how long he’d been a trekking guide:

Mr Whiskey: Fourteen years.

Polish Girl: Are you bored of it?

Mr Whiskey: Yes, very much, but I happy because I drink.

He’s been married three times. He’s single now.

Day three was a fun day but I wasn’t able to properly take advantage of it. My legs were tremendously stiff and most of the walking seemed to involve balancing on logs and other things that required my brain to issue orders to muscles that refused to comply. Also, I felt extremely fatigued, constantly wanted to be sick, and couldn’t open my eyes properly due to the gunge that kept coming out of them which I attributed to the seven bowls of opium I’d smoked the previous night. We wanted more but the man wouldn’t let us because I was staring into space and busily drooling whilst mumbling incoherently and Fat Dan actually fell asleep whilst smoking the pipe. Twice.

Anyway, it wasn’t life-threatening or anything if you fell off the things we had to balance on. All that would happen is that you would slip with a feeling of grim inevitability and smash one of your nuts.

I was limping quite badly and choking back tears by the time we made it to the elephant trekking place. I’ve been on an elephant once before and also once on a horse, after which I solemnly swore never to scale a quadruped again. Quite often they move and it’s usually of their own accord and if I was an elephant (or a horse), at some point I would get pissed off with carrying white people on my back and toss them into the nearest ravine. And ravines, when you’re on the back of a creature, always seem to be alarmingly close by. So, I nursed myself until they came back and got ready for the white water rafting.

White water rafting is excellent, although I later discovered you can get a bit wet. At one point, our captain (not Mr Whiskey, who was drinking elsewhere) ordered us all to jump in the river, so we did. They have very strong currents, do rivers, and when you’re wearing life jackets they’re absolutely perfect for drift dives (albeit drift dives on the surface). After that was the more sedate bamboo rafting, which mostly involves quietly plodding downstream on a semi-submerged raft. I was standing in front, thinking how good I was at it. Then I realised I was very close to being sick. Then we hit a rock and I went flying off the front in a tangle of arms and legs. I couldn’t get back on the raft for quite some time because everyone was laughing too much to steer it.

That’s about it, really. Incredibly, neither I nor Fat Dan got bitten by a single mosquito which is lucky since the only malaria-prophylactic we were using was DEET. I can only assume they were alarmed by his volcanic snoring. And there were only two spiders. Fat Dan has assured me that there are only two spiders in the world and since I’ve never seen more than two at the same time, I can only assume he’s right. Also, there are only five flies, globally.

Chka-chka-chka-chka...

Rob
Diving Leisure London

For an even better blog than this... Read the Battersea Blog

 
e-Rape (c)
Fags.  Booze.  Petrol Station.







Fat Dan has arrived.

We are in Bangkok. Fat Dan arrived at 9.45am yesterday and we began drinking at 10.15am, which leads me to an interesting coincidence: today, I feel terrible; it's almost as though the two things are related.

Fortunately, though, our time wasn't wasted. You see, when two fantastically creative minds get together and channel fantastically creative substances like alcohol and four billion fags, fantastic things are created. In this case, e-rape. It's easy, convenient and unbelievably offensive. All you need to do is send the following e-mail:

Subject: You're saying no...

Message: ...but it's already inside your inbox.

You've just been e-raped.

Please bear in mind, however, that e-rape is a hate crime: don't send one to your mum or anything. To be honest, I can't believe I have to point that out to you. You people make me sick, sometimes, you really do.

Anyway, we're off to the jungle for a few days now. It's rainy season. I have a pair of shorts.

Rob
RescuEAN
Comments on this post:
18/08/2009

I'd just like to thank James for being the first person to e-rape me.

Rob
Blue O Two
30/08/2009

I'm not fat, I'm just big boned / It's my glands.

Fat Dan
Blue O Two
17/09/2009

I've just e-raped all my friends

Alex Griffin
e-med Arabic
18/09/2009

They're all asking for it.

Rob
Adventure Divers La Manga

For an even better blog than this... Read the Battersea Blog

 
The Final Fight








An epic contest took place at 1.20am last night: Rob vs Spider. Chris Waddle left me all alone to fend for myself, which is typical behaviour for geckos in my experience, so I had to resort to the ancient Druidic tools of broom and shower to do battle.

To be honest, I’m still suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and need to medicate myself with beer and Monkey Juice (a local delicacy seemingly made from fermented orang-utan which makes you be sick on your feet. Incidentally, just procuring the stuff is an ordeal since you have to go to the Bar Next Door and run the very real risk of trying to communicate with the owner whom I believe is usually on crack. Last night he was bare-chested and gurning, as always, jigging from foot to foot and jerking his head wildly from side-to-side, as always, but also wearing a bandana with a skull and crossbones on it and an eyepatch near to his right ear. It’s quite frightening when he looks at you and you know if you laugh he will kill you).

Anyway, get this: the f*cking spider had gone missing for a few days. Where could he have gone? I’ll tell you: he was living behind the u-bend of the toilet. THE TOILET. Need I remind you that people sit down on the toilet? Only a spider would think of something so calculated and evil. So, I found him and after crying for about fifteen minutes (Pre-Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), attacked him with a broom. That’s when I discovered this particular species has two long arms, like the huntsman spider (thank the Lord I won’t be seeing any of those on my travels as they’re only native to Australia and... oh), and what they do when you go at them with a broom is run at you, screaming, with their arms raised and jumping occasionally to try and kill you in the throat. Actually it might have been me screaming. At least that’s what my neighbours accused me of when I saw them this morning. They’re good at hiding too (spiders, not neighbours; neighbours are rubbish at hiding because you already know where they live). So good, in fact, that after a while you think they must have used The Ancient Japanese Art Of Making Yourself Small to disappear entirely and that you must be going mental. Then, when you spray enough water around, they spring a surprise, particularly crafty attack by running away up a wall then jumping down again and drowning and being swept into the plughole.

So now I can’t use my shower because the plughole is covered by the bin and weighed down with heavy books, and I’ll be needing the shower because I’ll shortly be sicking Monkey Juice onto my feet. All of which makes me think that really, the spider won. Spiders always do. They’re utter bastards.

Rob
Dive Worldwide PNG

For an even better blog than this... Read the Battersea Blog

 
Ha ha, I Kick him out of Home
Walking in a Waddle Wonderland.







If there's one thing I learned from teaching my first course in Russian, it's that all prejudices are always correct all the time. Actually they were very nice, despite not understanding a single word I said, it's just that one of them had a penchant for peculiar antics with clownfish. At first I thought he was having buoyancy issues, then I realised he was using his pendulous fins to kick at the anemones in such a fashion as to create a massive current which the clownfish had to try to swim against alarmingly and which made the anemone itself resemble a complicated haircut caught in a gale.

They had amusing turns of phrase though, as previously mentioned. I asked Vlad at one point if he was hungry (Vlad spoke about fifteen words of English, Edvard, the other one, spoke none) and he replied "like wolf". He was also forced to interrupt me again, when I was teaching them how to use a compass: "We work in Russian air force", he said, "Edvard is navigate expert." He was, too.

They've left now, as has Larry, luckily, because someone was sure to punch him before long, most likely Sharon. She's a tiny Malay girl that manages the place and was forced out of professional customer respect to listen to his Cozumel whitterings for 45 minutes on the boat the other day.

Larry was obviously quite upset that he didn't get asked to teach anything, to the point where he claimed Sharon was clearly about to ask him first but he interrupted her by saying "I'm leaving in two days", so she asked me instead. I'll outline how that conversation must have gone, to save you the bother of having to think about it:

Sharon: Hi, Larry.

Larry: I'm leaving in two days.

Anyway, as always with Larry, this just made me feel more sorry for him. You'd see him alone in the restaurant and join him out of pity, then instantly regret it when he opens with something like:

"Hey, you should really stop smoking. It's bad for you" and then embarks on a thirty minute lecture on how smoking increases the risk of lung-overexpansion injury that you've already heard in your Divemaster course and, in turn, had to explain yourself to every Trainee Divemaster you've ever had. In this particular instance I actually stopped him by slapping his belly overexpansion and pointing out that obesity also increases your risk of the bends. He responded to that by tearily (I'm not making that up. Well, not much, anyway) outlining an operation he'd had on his hip a few years ago that left him less active than he wanted to be. Yes, I'll miss the laughs.

Sadly, Marina has also abandoned me for some obscure continent on the other side of the planet. I'm now condemned to three more weeks in Asia whilst she flounces about in Melbourne, having a good time opening bank accounts for me and trying to find us somewhere to live whilst I rot here, being forced to dive all day and drink beer every night. Hopefully she'll be able to see past her selfish ways for long enough to at least find me a job.

The worst part of it all, of course, is that she's been so concerned with herself all the time, she's failed to do anything about the spider that remains ominously at large in the room. I've spoken to Chris Waddle (our gecko, well, my gecko) about resolving the issue in a satisfactory way for all involved (except the spider, unless it has some weird masochistic urge to be eaten; he probably does actually, the freak) but he remains unmoved. Shame he's not Russian really: he'd at least devour a leg or two just for the amusement value.

Come to think of it, I missed an excellent chance to restart Cold War hostilities amongst Vlad, Edvard and Larrold. Bollocks.

Rob
Surf And Turf Safaris

For an even better blog than this... Read the Battersea Blog

 
Russia Wins Cold War








I was enlisted to teach an Open Water course today, thanks to the fragile ears of the dive staff in these parts. Larry's attempts to shout over everything I said this morning were thwarted, unfortunately for him, as my students are Russian and barely understand a word he, or I, say.

The highlight so far would have to be when I was explaining the dangers of cold water to them.

"Although 20 degrees might seem warm in air", I began, "It's actually quite cold in water-"

Vlad (I haven't made that up, it's actually his name) interrupted me at this point by simply stating, with a very stony face: "We are from Siberia".

"OK then, let's move on to the next question..."

Rob
RescuEAN
Comments on this post:
03/08/2009

Vlad has clearly forgotten the winters we spent nestling in the Urals. His teeth used to chatter uncontrollably into my thickly feathered royal robes. (The thermal properties of the Altai snow cock are well known in my father's kingdom.)

Please remind him of this the next time he starts trying to be hard about the water temperature.

And if you could prise from him the sixty rubles he owes me, I will consider not impaling him on an oiled spike which my brother lent me.

Perestroika!

Ivan the Second, Prince of Wallachia
Adventure Divers La Manga

For an even better blog than this... Read the Battersea Blog

 
Spider Scores 5.0
Probably running away from our spider.







Things have taken a tragic turn here in Perhentian Kecil for two reasons.

Firstly, I was asked today to lead a dive and possibly teach an Open Water course as the majority of the dive staff here are unable to equalise, due to ear infections you get from being near hippies for too long. Larry is also a dive instructor but Larry wasn’t asked. I put it to him that this (amongst many, many other things) might be because he doesn’t pay any attention to any other human being on a dive except for himself. “Hey, I pay plenny o’ attention to you guys”, was his response.

“But what about your buddy on that last dive?”, I countered, “The dive we just came up from about three minutes ago”.

“What about her?” This from the Big Man.

“Well, she said she almost panicked when we entered the wreck because she couldn’t find you”.

“So?”

“Well, you left her. Alone. For 45 minutes of the 47 minute dive. And didn’t tell her you were going anywhere.”

“Hey, I had to take pictures.” Declared the Septic, before embarking on a thirty six minute lecture on underwater photography and visibility, specifically with regard to the lack of it compared to Cozumel.

So, the dive I lead, along with events leading up to and preceding it, was very much like series 2 of The Office where Neil, who used to be David Brent’s contemporary, becomes his boss and Brent doesn’t deal with it too well. In this case, Larry dealt with it by giving me advice before the dive on things like making sure people don’t run out of air (I’d thought of that already, to be honest, having done this sort of thing once or twice before but I told him I’d make an exception in his case). During the dive he kept signalling suggested directions to me from the back of the group (to throw me off, I think: it was a “go that way for half the planned time then come back for the other half” type of dive to navigate) and pointing out shortcomings in the abilities of other divers. Since then, he’s dedicated himself to the task of contradicting everything I say. This is a good thing, though because I no longer feel guilty about yesterday when we went on a big dive trip over some reasonably rough waters. Larry, beforehand, kept asking Marina and I if we’d taken sea-sickness tablets and kept saying “uh-oh” when we admitted we hadn’t. Then when things got choppy he actually shut up for the first time in history and took to staring straight ahead with an obviously false grin fixed to his face. All this time, just one thought was rather uncharitably circulating my vicious little brain: “Spew, you bastard, spew”. But he didn’t, sadly.

All this pales in comparison to the second tragedy though: Marina. We are afflicted by a spider in our room and her attempts to deal with it are entirely effeminate and laughable. Firstly, she attempted to trap it by pathetically and inaccurately throwing a bucket at it. Subsequent, equally ludicrous efforts have mainly involved the ineffective use of a broom. I can’t help, of course, because it’s a really big one (possibly it won’t fit into a bucket at all, and it’s hairy, as Marina keeps pointing out) and whenever it appears I have to run outside, squealing manfully whilst brushing invisible arachnids off myself.

We should ask Larry to deal with it because he’s not scared of anything and although it’s not relevant, he got excellent scores during his Instructor Development Course (his Course Director, the best Course Director there has ever been, took him aside to tell him this on several occasions. I imagine he received some sort of trophy as well, or at least a kiss). With any luck the spider will be a venomous one and in a particularly vicious mood due to all the brooming he’s had to put up with recently.

Rob
Denney Diving

For an even better blog than this... Read the Battersea Blog

 
Like Forever
Larry.







We are in dire need of a Larrectomy.

I believe I alluded to The Man Who Invented PADI somewhere in the vomiting monologues. His name is Larry. He is, as the name suggests, American. Imagine Bob Fossil from The Mighty Boosh (if you can’t imagine it, Google it) except wearing one of three t-shirts depicting option a) a stingray, option b) a turtle, or option c) Bob The Fish: the fish with attitude. The t-shirts are badly faded and the former two bear corporate-sounding logos like “Mastering others is power, mastering yourself is true strength”. He had them made himself. He didn’t make Bob The Fish, though. Bob The Fish is the fault of another human being entirely. Bob wears sunglasses. Because he has attitude.

Larry, unfortunately, decided to accompany us on the long train, taxi and boat journey to the Perhentian Islands in Malaysia. He has some sort of fixation with Cozumel and specifically, the underwater visibility in Cozumel, which, he has led us to believe, is quite good. A sample conversation, which took place whilst waiting for the boat in Koh Tao, at the beginning of the long, long journey, follows:

Larry (flicking through photos on his iPod): See this guy over here: he’s at least a hundred feet away.

Rob: Yes.

Larry: But you can still see him really clearly.

Rob: Yes.

Larry: Because the visibility is so good.

Rob: Yes.

Larry: The visibility was SO good that in my logbook, where it asks you: “visibility”, I just put “forever”.

Rob: Yes.

Larry: See this one?

Rob: Yes.

Larry: See that rock over there?

Rob: Yes.

Larry: That rock is probably a hundred twenty, hundred thirty feet away.

Rob: Yes.

Larry: But you can see it really clearly.

Rob: Yes.

Larry: Because the visibility is so good.

Rob: Yes.

Larry: The visibility was SO good that in my logbook, where it asks you: “visibility”, I just put “forever”.

Rob: Yes.

Larry: Look at this one. You see that bommie over there?

At this point I will afford you the luxury that we don’t have by writing “etc.”

Larry informed us on several occasions on that long, long, long journey that his philosophy is basically just to “mellow out: I’m a mellow guy, you know, anything that’s mellow? That’s me right there. Mellow”. Unfortunately, some of his actions have given us recourse to question this. For example, the aforementioned boat from Koh Tao was three hours late which meant we were in danger of missing the train. Larry spent most of the three hours that he wasn’t telling us about the visibility in Cozumel, hectoring the Thai staff in the boat office. Grilling them for information, which they didn’t have and then returning to report the bad news to us and anybody else within earshot of his loud, urgent, Californian voice. He has a habit of helpfully punctuating these pieces of news by reminding you that the boat was due three hours ago and that you have a train to catch. Then he revises his plans in the face of any contingency, but not in his head of course; no, he does it out loud. To be honest, I don’t think he’s used to travelling in Asia. He often appends footnotes to the above observations, helpfully explaining how things work differently in the US and that this sort of thing wouldn’t happen there. I feel that might be because it’s the US, and not Asia, but I’m only guessing. Then he’ll sit down and tell you he’ll just deal with it, because that’s the way things go and he can’t do anything about it so he’ll just be mellow. Moments later he’ll be back in the office.

When the boat did arrive, he seemed to spend most of his time asking fellow passengers what train they were hoping to catch and pointing out that they might be out of luck because the boat was three hours late and it was supposed to be here at four. But it didn’t arrive until seven. Because it was three hours late.

We missed the train. Fortunately, there was one two hours later. We had to pay £15 extra each to get a ticket, but Larry was able to deal with it. Because he’s mellow. Around this point Marina berated me for smoking too much and my standard response that in fact it is she that is smoking too little didn’t cut it as well as usual, so I pointed out that I was hoping that if I smoked enough, I’d be dead from cancer before the night was through. She seemed to sympathise with that.

In truth, I was also slightly nervous as Marina had made the mistake of checking the Australian Foreign Office website for travel info in southern Thailand and northern Malaysia. The British one is excellent, suggesting things like “Probably shouldn’t head into Kabul just now, old chap. Give it a day or two for Johnny Foreigner to calm down a bit and go for a jaunt then”, doubtless whilst wearing a Panama hat and tucking into a G&T. The Australian one, as Marina pointed out, is a bit more along the lines of “Do not open your front door under any circumstances: there are terrorists out there waiting to kill you”. The trip itself was fine though, obviously, and it’s always calming to share a carriage with a teenager in uniform, snoozing on the barrel of his machine gun. I asked him if I could borrow it at one point to shoot Larry forty-seven times (he wouldn’t mind, because he’s mellow), but I think he’d already tried and discovered it wasn’t loaded.

Once over the border, Larry’s lack of communication skills delayed us again. The ATM machine claimed he’d typed in the wrong PIN so he couldn’t get cash and opted to see if he could make a counter withdrawal. However, instead of walking into the bank and presenting the limited-English-speaking Malays with the card, smiling gormlessly and saying something like “Can I get money?” he said “Yeah, I just tried my card in the teller machine outside and it’s telling me that I typed in the incorrect PIN, which I did not, so I’m wondering if there’s maybe any way I can use this card or one of my others, because I have a couple, to get some money over the counter here or whether I need to change some US dollars in notes because I got some of those as well.” The clerk pointed in a random direction and said “other bank”, then carried on taking 45 minutes to cash my traveller’s cheques.

When we finally got here, it seemed there was not a room on the island spare. I know this because I spent half an hour looking after the bags on the taxi boat, sitting on the engine fuel and smoking cigarettes, watching Larry storm from guest house to guest house, gesticulating wildly whilst Marina wandered in his wake. We were lucky though and got the last two rooms going.

It would have been far easier in the US but Larry wasn’t worried, even though the vis is better in Cozumel, because he’s mellow.

Rob
Aquamarine Silver
Comments on this post:
28/07/2009

I am enjoying the story so far.

LOoking forward to the next instalmen. Oh damn my spelling s going silly I need DRINK.

Is Larry for real or is he a figment of your drunken brain?

Rob's mum (3 bottles of wine)
e-med Arabic
01/08/2009

Sadly, mum, Larry, the face of America, is indeed real.

I'm trying to recruit him for the photostory, mainly because he has no sense of humour. I know this because he thought I was taking the p*ss out of him the other day (amazingly, and despite all the odds, at that particular moment I wasn't) and he said:

"We're you ragging on me? 'Cos if you were that's totally OK because I have a great sense of humour."

He wasn't smiling.

Rob
Adventure Divers La Manga

For an even better blog than this... Read the Battersea Blog

 
Tysontanic Hangover
Clean my sink, you bastard.







“Triggerfish blocked my sink”, Meryl Streep, A Cry In The Dark.

My lack of cooking skills was sadly highlighted on Marina’s Advanced Open Water Deep Dive yesterday when I was required to crack an egg at 26m so that we might all observe the effects of pressure on poultry. I had a Rubik’s cube with me and I believe that Marina and the Dutchman (another student) expected me to use that in lieu of a frying pan to release the contents. Instead I tried to use my thumbs and crushed it with my stupid moron hands.

So, the thing to do was ignore their looks of incredulity and get on with the dive. We were in a sandy area about 50m from the Green Rock that gives the site its name and I rather cleverly (using a compass) guided us to it. I then spent a couple of minutes trying to find something of interest to look at on the rock (which is green), without realising that I had inadvertently led us into the ghetto. I didn’t notice this fact until I received what felt like a solid punch to the top of my skull. At first I assumed I had rather cleverly (using a compass) swam into the rock (green) but when I looked up I saw a frankly massive specimen of the titan triggerfish species chewing on a piece of my scalp and looking somewhat agitated.

I took the usual evasive action (ie. trying to kick him in the face whilst he tried to bite my fins / legs / nuts etc.) and gestured frantically at Marina and the Dutchman to swim away from the sand and over the coral mount behind them. They did this both commendably and quickly, possibly due to the fact that Tyson’s missus, Angel, had joined in the fun and was trying to take chunks out of them too. This was the main impetus behind the post-dive decision to purchase some proper fins for Marina, since the comedy ones she was hiring have the propulsive power of damp paper and make it very difficult to kick the heads off animals.

We saw them again about ten minutes later. I thought it would be funny to give Tyson the finger. If you ever get set upon by thugs in the street and chance upon them later the same evening, I would suggest not crossing to their side of the road in order to make rude gestures at them, because what happens is they set upon you a second time. As I fought a running battle with Tyson, Angel went at the Dutchman again and took his fin as a trophy. At that point we all agreed we’d had enough fun for one dive and made our way to the anchor line for the ascent.

Years ago, I remember some snorkelers on a boat we were working on being attacked by triggerfish and receiving injuries so severe they had to be airlifted to hospital. The next day we returned to the site and a couple of the DMs tried to spear the offending hooligan. I felt sorry for the triggerfish since he was only defending his territory. Now I can see why Cousteau went about dynamiting reefs left right and centre. It’s terrific fun. Also all triggerfish must die.

Anyway, Marina finished the course and we went out to celebrate and get over the Tyson incident with a couple of beers, some margaritas, a few gin and tonics and a couple of buckets of Sangsom whiskey and red bull. There followed an incident which I haven’t dared tell Marina about, as I believe it best if she learns it here like everyone else. The evening became sketchy. I remember I couldn’t talk properly and was making good sport of falling over things; invisible things mostly. I spoke to a man who invented PADI. We got stuck on the beach, which was particularly treacherous that night because it was covered in sand. Then it rained on us and we made it back to the room, where Marina passed out with great skill. I brushed my teeth. I think I put the toothbrush too far into my mouth because I started vomiting copiously. The problem was that quite early on in this endeavour I blocked the sink, so I had to keep scraping shards of vom into the shower, which kept bringing on fresh attacks. Sadly, it soon transpired that the sink was irrevocably blocked. It was a problem that stretched beneath the plughole. But the thing is, you see, the sink was now full. I crept into the bedroom and found a small plastic bag which I used as a kind of excavation device to transport matter from sink to shower. It took a while. At one point I was sick on myself; on my pants, as it goes.

Marina tried to unblock the sink this morning (I told her she was the one that blocked it: “Don’t you remember?”). It didn’t work but it did make her spew in the shower.

F***ing triggerfish.

Rob
Dive Worldwide PNG

For an even better blog than this... Read the Battersea Blog

 
Tits
Extremely athletic deep water exit.







Oh, I forgot: Marina qualified as an Open Water Diver today, so well done her. Her main problem is that she doesn't use enough air, which makes me look bad.

Actually, the only two things that medical science knows about girls is that they use less air than boys and they have tits. Doubtless the two are related, but despite many theories, nobody really knows how.

Rob
Ocean Leisure
Comments on this post:
28/07/2009

Congratulations to Marina, long may she keep

diving.

From an early age girls just whimper flutter their eyelashes get attention and so do not need to scream thus using a lot of air. boys however scream very loudly use a lot of air and deafen their mothers. this is why the mother of boys has the tv volume turned up.

Rob's mum (3 glasses of wine)
Adventure Divers La Manga

For an even better blog than this... Read the Battersea Blog

 
Peter Reid
Taken by Marina, who, unlike me, actually knows how to take photos.







Alright, I take it all back. Well, most of it: I think Instructor A is actually very helpful. I'm sure he's seedy, manipulative and evil as well, but he's a nice guy.

Instructor B still has a massive heid, however, there's nothing any of us can do about that. God knows, I'm sure he's tried.

I might just have to pick on the restaurant staff instead, who are shiftless and moody to a man, well, boy: I think they may be the victims of child labour. Which is good, because it will teach them not to be so lazy. For the most part they hang around in a pack (there can't be more than 160 of them) around the kitchen, giggling relentlessly and flicking each other with things. Then when you ask them to do something vaguely unreasonable, like prepare some food for you, they shuffle over, throw a menu at you and sulk whilst you make your order, doubtless berating you in Thai for your poor taste.

One of them is wearing a t-shirt that reads "Happy Girl" today. We can only assume it is ironic. A bit like Instructor B's Mekon-like heid.

Rob
Blue O Two

For an even better blog than this... Read the Battersea Blog

 
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