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It was a cold and very blustery day when the lone Lyme Bay Diver awoke. Yawning the yawn of a knackerd old man the lone Lyme Bay Diver pulled his nightcap around his ears, his tartan dressing gown about his sagging shoulders and his pink fluffy bunny slippers onto his flat gorgonzola feet. Shuffling over to the cracked and dirty window he gazed through bloodshot eyes at the storm brewing outside. What a great day for diving he thought to himself menacingly.
The lone Lyme Bay Diver was a big wig in the club, literally and metaphorically speaking. Literally in that the hairpiece badly poised on his balding head was certainly big, and metaphorically, as a founder member and self made despotic dictator, the club was unquestionably run by him as his own despite anything the constitution said to the contrary. Kept in office as Chairperson, unofficial DO & Treasurer by the unquestioning arse licking subservience of the sad group of divers he had gathered around him, the lone Lyme Bay Diver could sit back bathing in his own make believe little world of lies and self delusion about club diving.
The club itself, for what it was worth consisted of a small but unknown and ever changing quantity of poor lost souls, numpties, muppets and wierdos masquerading as divers. A few of these characters are briefly described below to give the reader an impression of what they are dealing with here.
Old Scrotum (the official DO) was well beyond his prime, deaf and daft and loosing his faculties faster than a tree looses its leaves in autumn, this was a man truly not in control of his divers, let alone his bladder. Often to be heard issuing the fabled and well rehearsed phrase “out of order” to anyone who dare question his totally impaired judgment, and only ever replying “eehhh” in a squeaky voice to anything said around him, basically due to the mean streak that stopped him putting new batteries in his hearing aid, Old Scrotum was (thankfully) the last of a near extinct breed of ancient diver.
The Treasurer or Rancid Pasty as he was known to his friends and foes alike was not really treasurer at all. The lone Lyme Bay Diver ensured that he was not allowed access to bank accounts, cheque book, money or anything to do with the financial running of the club. Just why he bothered no one really knew. Granted he went out on the odd dive if the sea was particularly vile but usually that was just to get away from home. Still he was a stalwart of the club when he could be bothered.
Other little fish in this very small pond included Mumpty the perpetual trainee who had, since semi learning to dive 6 years ago, never yet mastered the art of buoyancy control, ascents, descents, the dark, the wet, depths below 3 m, the cold, big scary fish, driving the RIB, putting his kit together, buying a round, tying his shoe laces, in fact, just about anything a competent 12 year old could do blindfolded. Mumpty was what every club dreads, a total waste of white skin and rations as Old Scrotum used to say when he was fighting in the Boer War.
Then there was the training officer, Motormouth, who as the name suggests, never ever stopped talking total crap. Not only that but the total crap was usually irrelevant to any other conversations being held in his vicinity This was a guy who redefined the term ‘verbal diarrhea’. 4 hours on a dive boat with Motormouth and even the most rational and level headed social worker or psychiatric analyst would crack under the constant onslaught of drivel. As for his ability as the training officer, well I guess a 100% failure rate to convert new trainees to club divers speaks for itself.
Other than this small selection of bit players there were a multitude of dissatisfied trainees and club divers who collectively made up the club numbers. Mostly they were novices who had been talked into joining his club by promises of wonderful diving, great friendship and gold at the bottom of the warm clear seas of Slyme Bay. Little did they suspect that this was just a huge carrot to get them to part with their money to support the rapidly emptying club coffers. Most would never know more than the warmth and beauty offered by the local swimming pool, few progressing to the cold and dark forbidding 6m off of the local training beach. Those who did survive the dreaded first shore dive rarely returned to the open water again. Put off by the cold and dark conditions, the incompetence of the instructors and the forbidding costs of even stepping aboard the club RIB, most gladly gave up diving for friendlier persuits such as bungee jumping, wrestling with wild tigers and cribbage.
Yes, the lone Lyme Bay Diver certainly had a club to be proud of in a kind of annialistic way. Not just his members but the club kit was all really rather crap as well. 2 once perfect RIBs reduced to a pair of tubs held together with gaffa tape and filler paste, rust and resin. Sophisticated electronics that wouldn't raise a spark let alone the coastguard or a wreck, engines that despite being state of the art a year ago were now destined for the wreckers, and trailers that bore more resemblance to rusty 5 bar gates on flat tyres than road worthy means of marine transportation. Oh dear, what a reflection on the penny pinching overtightened purse strings budget controlled by the sad old git. I won't mention the club diving kit for fear of being too kind about it by saying that most of it was unservicable, certainly I wouldn't want to use any of it for fear of death by rust inhalation, compressor oil poisoning and serious bladder leaks and diaphram rupture. Apparently it was serviced, once.
Now you have learnt a little about our heros do you fancy a diving day with this bunch of loosers? If not stay with us and continue delving into the pits of club diving and revel in the delights of their other persuits. Click on the sections below to find out more.
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