At least once a week the young McChurch’s walk to the local festering bog known as ‘Keynsham pool’. Here they can spend a pleasant hour or so splashing around in other peoples sweat, urine and snot, cunningly disguised by the liberal (ab)use of eye scorching chlorine. No, I know it isn’t so different to other pools, at least those in this country. On the continent of course it is a different story. Over there, the great-unwashed mingers must shower before they enter a public pool - one that is not heated to bath water temperature to encourage the growth of bacteria. Overseas they do not need to pour tanker loads of toxic chemicals into the water to combat the filth on your evil smelling carcasses.
For pities sake, is it really asking too much for the great population of this town to shower before they lower their rancid heaving bulks into the soup of human body fluids? The washing facilities are free! They may not be sunken baths of warm asses milk surrounded by scantily clad water nymphs, ready to cater to your every whim. They might need a bit of a scrub up themselves but they are free. So do us all a favour, next time you go to the civic ‘water hole’ just think where your arse was that morning, get out your bar of Imperial Leather and have a bloody wash!
Keynsham 'Leisure' Centre
On the subject of the pool I couldn’t help but notice the behaviour of other parents taking their offspring for a dip. They park their immaculate 3.5 litre, 4x4, all terrain, bull-bar-toting, bullet proof, climate proof, cyclist-crushing chrome monstrosities in Temple Street car park and buy a ticket. Well, you have to now since the killjoys in the Fire Brigade have barricaded the only free car park left in town. Watch them then as they saunter across to the snooker hall before grasping their little darlings and sprinting the last few yards past the early learning centre to the pool doors.
'Wow' you say, 'early learning centre? - we don’t have one.' Oh yes we do! It masquerades as a café come drop in centre for ‘young people’. You can’t fool me though, I have seen the lessons: Fluent Brisole for the already verbally challenged, gobbing dockyard oysters, peeing au natrel, riding ludicrously small bikes that belong in a circus and hurling torrents of abuse at anyone with the temerity to skulk past. There you have it. This pack of hyenas of indeterminate age or sex is lurking at the entrance to the bog. Packed full of pre-pubescent vitriol they are waiting for you. Waiting to assault your delicate sensibilities as you rush from your nice safe 4x4 to the bog.
Nevertheless, our townsfolk are made of stern stuff and week in, week out the routine remains the same. Three circuits of the tiny car park in a car too large to park in only one space. Run the gauntlet of under aged foul-mouthed vermin. Into the pool changing rooms where you try not to stand on old sticking plasters and worse. Then plunge your beloved offspring into the toxic soup. You then retire to the ‘viewing gallery’, sweat running down your back in the clammy atmosphere, eyes streaming with the hot vapourised chlorine, spine at breaking point on the wooden benches imported from a Japanese prisoner of war camp. How on earth can this be called a ‘LEISURE CENTRE’?