The King Of The Swingers

It's Thursday morning and Marion is at the hairdressers so I decide to spend a couple of hours at the gym. I finish my routine and head down to the changing room. As I go in, I'm aware of a conversation going on in the communal shower. I glance in that direction. It's two oldish blokes. The first is showering conventionally facing the jets of hot water. His companion has his back to the water and, in even the briefest of glances, it's impossible not to notice that he's endowed with the most unfeasibly oversized meat and two veg since the Great British Bake Off's squirrel. His Cumberland sausage almost brushes his knees. The shower stands like a stage a foot or so above the changing room floor and I half expect him to fling out his arms and regale us with a chorus of "I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts". In true gym tradition I avert my eyes.


I head for my locker and can hear them droning on about Council employees and local politics. I get out of my sweaty gym stuff and hear the shower stop running. The first man drapes himself in a towel and walks modestly to his locker; not so our Alpha male; he strides manfully across the floor and ends up at the locker next to mine.


I'm about to head into the shower when my phone goes. I reach into my gym bag and fish it out. It's Flo's care home enquiring about a doctor's appointment. I sit down to take the call only to find his tackle an inch away from my ear (and my elbow). I feel like I'm being eavesdropped by an albino python.


I end my call and go to the shower. As I shower the blah, blah, blah of council, golf club and Christmas continues behind me. As I finish I see that the friend has had time to dry, dress, tidy his hair and put on his coat as well as run through the minutes of the Golf Club AGM. But our king of the swingers has obviously decided to drip dry.


As the friend takes his leave he wishes everyone a Merry Christmas. I, together with the other members in various states of undress attempt to ignore the elephant in the room. He moves to centre stage and starts doing some sort of stretching exercises. It could not be more obvious that he is staking his claim to the territory if he went and peed in every corner. The look on his face says it all. "I'm the cock of the walk". "I'm the dog's bollocks". I'm surprised that he hasn't an arrow tattooed above his groin along with the message "LOOK WHAT I'VE GOT". I wonder if I should ask him if he'd like me to head for reception and ask Lisa to put out an announcement on the Tannoy "Ladies and gentlemen please roll up, roll up to the gentlemen's changing room where Mr Ivor Biggun is displaying his GINORMOUS testacles.


By now, I'm almost dressed and there's a palpable air of relief in the room as he heads to the locker and reaches for some clothes. He pulls out a shirt. I'm probably not alone in thinking "Bloody hell. He'll have his jacket and tie on before the crown jewels get put away."


As I comb my hair he reaches into his bag and pulls out a huge pot of E45 cream. On taking a big dollop and starting to massage it into his buttocks he sparks a mass exodus of disheveled members stumbling to tie up laces and straighten hair. An instructor passes us on the stairs. "Where's the fire?"


I head back to the car and the phone rings. It's Marion. I refrain from telling her that I've spent the last ten minutes as an unwilling spectator to an audition for King Dong. "I'm ready" she says "will you be long?"


"Don't worry" I say. "I'll be with you shortly."




Happy Christmas and thanks for reading my blog.


I'll leave you with a link to my usual favourite Xmas video click here. (I can't find an embed code anwhere)


And here's a  cheesy feel good one for the season of good will.