Home Features Club Nights Underwater Pics Feedback Non-Celebrity Diver Events 20 July 2018
Blog Archive Medical FAQs Competitions Travel Offers The Crew Contact Us MDC LDC
Order Tanked Up Magazine
 Twitter Tanked Up FAQ Dive Medicine  Download the Tanked Up Magazine App

(some items will require Adobe Flash Player)

Adventure Divers La Manga
I know me t'interweb two point nowt and I want me chuffin' Big Fat Feed of RSS fed to me.
Showing 51-60 of 98

« Most recent  <Forward   1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10  Back >  Oldest »
Prisoner Cell Block H
Carbonised trees regenerate in the bush after last summer's fires

Ha! Look at that, eh? Look! Just there on the left. That's right: pictures. 20th Century here we come. Have a flick back through some of your favourite posts; the ones that brought tears to your eyes and bile to your mouth, and you're sure to see that the blog is now infested with pictures with exciting alt-text captions for those who care to scroll over them. You can also add your own photos to your comments. No, really, you can.

I'm in Melbourne now. I left Fat Dan to the lesbians of Tioman, and bought an AirAsia ticket to Oz. AirAsia is the EasyJet of, er, Asia: bizarrely cheap, nauseatingly cheerful and most importantly, not Q*ntas (wankers). Get your tickets now (you can buy a big baggage allowance).

We almost have somewhere to live, despite the fact that Marina seems to have wasted all her time nursing people to health in a hospital and haggling with estate agents whilst I worked my knuckles to the bone in various Asian drinking establishments [insert ladyboy joke here].

Until then though, we're staying with her parents, which means I'm spending all my time trying not to swear, drink until 3am, make careless comments regarding sex with their daughter, or make smells. They've been phenomenally nice actually, which makes me nervous. Her dad's a military man so I expect the pleasantries are just a prelude to him wandering in one afternoon and shooting me in the face. That's what I'd do if my daughter was associated with the likes of me.

For those who've never been; this is what Melbourne is like: exactly the same as Neighbours but colder and wetter. I put this to Marina and she said: "No, it's not, it's... actually, yeah, you're right", and then added in a warning tone: "It's not like Home and Away though". I hadn't suggested it was but agreed with her in a way that made it sound like I had and that I was wrong to have done, since it's never wise to be correct around an Australian. Especially Australian girls. And especially Australian girls with fathers that are trained to kill.

Comments on this post:
A real-life hot babe and not an image pathetically Googled by Rob.

Hi Rob!

Yours is easily the wittiest and most intelligent writing ever to grace the whirlynet and having seen your profile photo I would have to say you are probably the bestest lookingest bloke on planet Earth.

I've uploaded a picture of myself in order that you may see what an absolute babe I am, and in no way have I posted it just so you can prove that the Add Picture function works when posting comments. It wouldn't make sense for me to do that as testing the forms is your job and no one else would do that for you unless it was actually you pretending to be someone else. But this isn't Rob, this is someone else. Look at me. What a babe, eh? Phwoar.

I should also point out that I am Australian and all Australian girls look like this and all Australian girls fancy you, so Marina should probably bear that in mind next time she has a go at you for smoking (ie. next time you go for a smoke).

Not Rob
H2O Dive
Jonathan, feeling (and looking) like a completely different person.

Hi Rob! It's your old housemate Jonathan here.

I was so inspired by that nice lady that I decided to upload a photo of my own. Well, as you can see I'm on a bit of a health kick and have spent some time down the gym.

I've still a long way to go but I feel like a completely different person.

Fond regards,

Jonathan, Herne Hill
Adventure Divers La Manga
Smoking is bad for you.

Nice site

London and Midlands Diving Chambers

Look! We're getting spam now. I feel like we've made it. Must be due to the Top Of The Spam feature in the last issue that seemed to upset some sensitive types. I only wish I'd actually wrote them rather than just copying and pasting them.

Anyway, did anyone know that smoking is bad for you? I don't think there's any evidence for it.

Blue O Two

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

BS 2, FD 1

Fat Dan got off with a lesbian last night while I watched...

...Raiders Of The Lost Ark on my laptop. This is what happens when you go to bed early and leave him in a bar on his own.

I have a cold, so that's it for diving and drinking (at least it was last night), but I'll be in Australia in a couple of days anyway and there's probably no water or beer there.

Fat Dan, when not inexplicably making sexy-time with people genetically incapable of fancying him, owns his own Graphic Design business and has worked Phottyshop wonders with my bull shark image. It's now almost recognisable. You can even see his two willies (the bull shark's, not Fat Dan. I expect Fat Dan only has one willy, but to be honest, I've never thought to ask).

Watch this space...

Ralf Tech

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


I saw a bull shark yesterday.

We're on Tioman Island in Malaysia. It accidentally took us two days to get here because we're quite stupid.

There was an enormous Singaporian man on the ferry here, built like The Terminator, who was wearing a t-shirt with a dive flag that read: "It's not a sport unless you can die from massive internal injuries." He sat in front of me and with his massive shaven head no more than a foot away, it was very difficult to resist the urge to flick his Cro-Magnon pate. At that point you would have to whinily beg him not to hit you until he turned around and you could do it again, ad infinitum.

So, yesterday, we did a dive at a place called "Tiger Reef". Very beautiful corals but 5m vis. Fat Dan ran low on air after 30 minutes because he spent most of the dive flapping around and being girly, so whilst the DM took him and some other breathers up, I went to the front and dragged a couple of people around.

As I came around the corner of the reef, I looked up in time to see the biggest shark I've ever laid eyes upon (and I've seen a few) doing a u-turn maybe a metre and a half from my head. He was enormous, maybe three metres long and so solid and stocky, there's no way I'd have gotten my arms around him for a cuddle, although I did try.

And then he was gone.

I've seen a lot of grey reefies in my time and had always assumed that a bull shark was just a bigger version of them, but now I see the difference. This chap was seriously muscly and, well, basically bull-like. A bit like the Singaporean except I had no urge to flick his head. I have a terrible photo which I will post here when I get the technology up and running (soon, I promise).

Nobody on the boat believed me, obviously. They haven't said anything but I can tell. The problem is a) I was the only one to see it, b) I didn't really see its head, c) the photo is awful, and d) no one knew you got them here. I suppose it could have been a very vivid hallucination, similar to the one I'm having now that leads me to believe I'm typing all this into the world's slowest internet connection, but I'm a shark obsessive and I've also matched up details and shapes of fins as well as I can from the photo with the reef guide and that's what I saw. Bizarrely, I think people don't see them because the vis is usually much better. This one was obviously swimming in to have a proper look at what was making all the noise, whereas usually he could do it from about 40 metres away and keep himself secret.

Somebody on the boat did ask me if it was behaving aggressively, but I have to assume that since he was so close and already turning when I saw him; if he had wanted to be aggressive, he would probably be still gnawing on my thick skull now, trying to find a morsel of brain, and I would never have known about it.

Surprisingly, Fat Dan and I celebrated this experience with massive amounts of beer. The only thing I really remember from last night was drawing a map of the UK on the dart scoreboard and writing below it: "Special Question for Manchester United fans [of which there are many in Malaysia]. Here is a map of Britain. Where is Manchester?" No one was having much luck and then a Malay guy strolled up, put a mark at just about the right point and wrote next to it "Liverpool".

Excellent. Absolutely excellent.

Dive Worldwide PNG
Comments on this post:

Actually my size puts people off me, so next time you want to flick my head laddie, do so, I love it.

See you on the boat back.

Fat Singaporean
50 Reasons to Hate the French

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

Wax Off
Fat Dan, there's no need to feel down, I said Fat Dan...

We went to see some Thai Boxing last night. I was a bit worried because I’d been before some 100 moons ago and it was utterly crap: When they say: “Real fight! Not for tourist! Not show fight!” you begin to suspect that they’re lying because they’re held in the tourist centre and only tourists go except for the odd prostitute accompanying a fat white man. But as it transpired, unlike last time they were real fights, just amateur ones. Irritatingly, there were a group of Americans behind us who became tactical experts after the first round of the first fight, loudly pointing out where everyone was going wrong. Of course, it would be impossible to take them seriously, but this was even more the case because the evidence for their observations was (I’m not joking here): Karate Kid. This line of reasoning has several drawbacks. Firstly, Karate Kid is a movie. Secondly, it’s a kids movie. Thirdly (and following on from one and two), I’m not sure how realistic it is. And fourthly, it’s a movie about karate, not Thai Boxing.

In between fights, ladyboys would dance to tunes like YMCA. I was there with some younger lads who weren’t sure if they were really ladyboys and so I spent much of the night claiming I wasn’t sure either and encouraging them to find out for sure.

Anyway, later there was a white guy boxing. This was the main event, an “International Contest” between a German (“Michael”) and a Thai. The German was massive. He spent the first 45 seconds relentlessly pummelling his opponent, much in accordance with the advice of the Americans, whilst the Thai guy did absolutely nothing. Then, whilst the German was unleashing a stinging volley of vicious kicks, the Thai guy side-stepped, punched Herr Michael once in the face, and knocked him out.

The best part was the “Show” part though: blind boxing. Three aged ex-boxers were blindfolded and pushed around in the ring. When they got close to anybody, they started pinwheeling their arms wildly. They connected more often than you would think, although 30% of the time with the guy doing the pushing. This was wrong, tragic and pitiful. It was utterly hilarious.

The Underwater Channel
Comments on this post:

I kicked the living shit out of the dude right after the photo, only to discover he actually was blind (and a passer-by).

Fat Dan
e-med Arabic

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

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.



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.

e-med Arabic
Comments on this post:

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

Adventure Divers La Manga

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

Fat Dan
e-med Arabic

I've just e-raped all my friends

Alex Griffin
e-med Arabic

They're all asking for it.

Diving Chamber Treatment Trust

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.

Maldives Diving Adventure

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.

Catfish Dive & Safari

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..."

Diving Leisure London
Comments on this post:

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.


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”.


“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.


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

I know me t'interweb two point nowt and I want me chuffin' Big Fat Feed of RSS fed to me.
Showing 51-60 of 98

« Most recent  <Forward   1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10  Back >  Oldest »
Agony Armchair Aunt Best Bride Busted Catch Catch Chamber Club Cooking DCI Deep Deepravities Dentist Dive Dive Diver Diver Diving Doc Don'ts Don'ts Dos Downsides Dry Editorial Fish Flow Gimp Guide Horrorscopes Investigates Letters Love Marine Myth Nervous Night Non-Celebrity Part Paul Photo Photography Photostory Practical Quiz Quiz Reasons Rob Scapa Scuba Sea Shark Sharkipedia Sharm Story Tech Technical Things Toomer Triggerfish Tyson UK Underwater Versus World World Worst your