Getting Naked For A Day

Way back in April I published a post called “I’m Happy In My Own Skin….” and the overwhelming numbers of readers of that piece shocked me. There many very positive comments regarding the ideas that I was trying to convey and I was, it’s more than fair to say, delighted with the responses. Following that post I wrote a few pieces about the perception of nudity, especially in the UK, and went as far as expressing my desire to swim naked. I explained that I’d been in touch with a naturist club about visiting for a day and I do believe that from there I wrote nothing more on nudity or naturism. That was in mid May and nothing that I’ve written to here since makes any reference to naturism or nudism apart from the fact that my feet are stripy thanks to wearing Croc flip flops on my otherwise bare feet in the sun. I’m now sitting at my laptop typing out my thoughts whilst my back, shoulders and chest are itching not through insect bites but because of sunburn.

Before I go much further I have mentioned to a few friends (hello Gaz!) that getting naked for a day intrigued and interested me, I’m pretty sure that he thought that it was just another of my manic whims which have manifested themselves in an “all talk and  no action” type scenario. Well, sorry Gaz, this was talk but it was also action and as a result of that I’m seriously thinking of deactivating my Facebook account so that I won’t be tagged in any “humorous” posts that may end up embarrassing and upsetting my family. (They know all about it though.) However, once I’ve completed this I’ll read it back and then decide.

wreck beach 087

(Photo credit: Ðariusz)

Anyway to get back to the point I spent the biggest part of a week staying with my Mom in the Midlands and had arranged to visit a club on Saturday 19th July. All through the week the weather was good and I was really looking forward to the trip. However, the weather took a horrendous turn for the worse with thunderstorms and torrential rain beating down in the early hours. Just my luck, it was definitely an omen and this day trip just was not meant to be. I made arrangements to go on the Sunday provided that the weather was ok and set off from my Moms at about 10:30 on a warm yet overcast day. The closer I got to this club the less certain I was that this whole enterprise was a good idea. I was about 3 miles away and pulled the car over into a lay-by and took in the weather. I was almost hoping for rain so that I would have an excuse for turning the car around and going back to my Mom’s. However, it was plain to see that the clouds were clearing and the West Midlands was going to get a beautiful sunny day.

I drove on and stopped within about 50 yards of the main gates flicked on the hazard warning lights and reached under my seat where there’s a little drawer and pull out a packet of cigarettes. Feeling not unlike a condemned man I opened the pack and lit my first cigarette in 10 months. I can clearly recall thinking “is this really a good idea” quickly followed by “you’ll regret it if you don’t go in.” this was followed by me saying to myself “you said you wanted to get naked so come on.”

I drove the last couple of yards and rang at the main gate and was quickly invited inside and pointed to a little car park. I grabbed my little bag and went to fill in a form to show who I was. I was asked to show id with my address on and I provided photo card driver’s licence. The chap also took a quick peek at my debit card, cash card and whatever else I offered him. I paid my £7 for a day membership and that’s it I was a temporary member of a naturist club. The chap who signed me in got up from behind his desk dropped his towelling robe over the back of his chair and told me he’d show me around. So we began, me in a tee shirt, shorts and my beloved Croc flip flops and him totally naked. He showed me into the the clubhouse where there was food on offer and a fully licensed bar. He pointed out where the outdoor swimming pool was and then showed me where the toilets and showers were. There was also a sauna and he said that it was not in use; the reason why went straight over my head. He pointed out where I’d be able to find the paths to go into a wooded area for a walk should that take my fancy. My mini tour was over, it probably took about 10 minutes but I really couldn’t tell you the exact time. As we’d strolled around there were several people milling about near their caravans, sitting in the sun or just at a table having a drink.

My guide asked me if there’s anything else that I wanted to know and I said that I couldn’t think of anything. He reassured me that there was no pressure to take my clothes off if I was nervous. Any nervousness I had felt when I was outside of the gate had gone. Besides he said that I went wandering around the site wearing shorts then people would look at me because I’d stand out as not being naked like everyone else. I then realised had forgotten where the swimming pool was so I asked him to point it out to me again and before he could tell me of the “swimming pool rule” I said to him that I knew that if I wanted to use the pool then I’d have to be naked and that I’d looked the club’s website. He left me at this point and I strolled across to a bench took my towels from my bag (one for sitting on and one to use as a towel) kicked off my flip flops, pulled my tee shirt over my head, took off my shorts and that was that – one naked Denbow. I then walked, not run with my hands cupped around my tackle, walked normally to a low gate and onto the paved area that surrounded the swimming pool. It’s only 4 feet deep so jumping in is not really a good idea so I walked down the steps and was in. I had the pool to myself for about 5 minutes then a few people also decided that going into the pool was a good idea. At least I’d had the pool to myself for a few minutes and had got in a few lengths of the pool so I’d achieved my little ambition of swimming naked and it feels so much better to be in the water like that than when wearing a pair of Speedos.

Al bebe nirvana le creció la barba

(Photo credit: dwaynemac)

I leaned back at the edge of the pool and watched these people playing some bizarre game the object of which seemed to be to to hit someone with a mini plastic football when they weren’t looking. To be honest I wouldn’t have minded joining in and was about to ask when out of nowhere came one of those wretched balls and smacked me across the face. The girl who’d thrown it was aiming for someone else and he had taken evasive action. That was it revenge was to be mine and suddenly I was in the game. Daft as it may sound it was great fun and everyone including me had enjoyed it. I left the pool first and head back to my bag for a drink of flavoured water that I’d brought me and seeing ashtrays on the tables decided that I’d grab my vapes and my cigarettes. My car was parked some distance away so I grabbed my car keys and set off to grab them. It took 2 or 3 minutes to get to the car park and being a bit dim actually find my car. I pressed the beeper to unlock the car open the door and sat down on the driver’s seat. It was warm, very warm and it was only then that I’d walked across the site naked apart from my croc flip flop and I hadn’t noticed or given it a second thought.

I walked back to where my bag was and decided to have a cigarette. A woman who’d I’d guess was in her late 30s asked me if I was thinking of joining this club and I explained that because I lived so far away then a full membership wouldn’t be worthwhile. She then asked me where I normally went and I told her nowhere and that this was my first visit to a naturist club. She seemed a bit surprised as did her husband when he turned up. They’d been going there about 10 years and absolutely loved the place and when she explained to him that it was my first visit anywhere he was interested to know what I thought.

So I told him what I’d noticed. What I did notice was the fact that I didn’t notice. What I mean is that I didn’t really see masses of naked bodies I saw people and that the people I had spoken with all made eye contact. They didn’t look you up and down, they talked to you, your face and not your body. I couldn’t help but see that there were people of all shapes and sizes front fat to skinny. There were people of all ages from a little boy of about 3 you took great in squirting me with a water pistol to a lady who possibly in her 60s or 70s and every point in-between.

I asked this couple the best route to get to the paths into the woodlands to have a little explore. The husband began to tell me when she got up from her seat and said she wanted to look at my back. I had 2 red marks on my back, fairly raised, and were a bit itchy. She announced almost with pride that they were insect bites and I said I’d been attacked by flying ants. She asked for second a second opinion and I ended up with second, third and fourth opinion that some flying blighters had bitten me. One of them advised me to steer clear of the woods as I be eaten alive because the hot dry weather had brought all manner of little malevolent little beasties. They also reckoned that because I was so pale I’d be the proverbial sitting duck. With that I plonked myself down and then decided to have a cold drink so I headed into the bar I search of alcohol free drink. I decided on a Becks Blue which was served to me by a naked barman!

I had a long chat with a chap who had been a member there for years and he told me about his trips abroad to Spain, The Canary Islands and Croatia and the different attitudes to naturism and nudity on the continent. He asked me where I lived and he explained that there is a decent club closer to home that may be worth checking out. He also said that a naturist day in a water park is brilliant and I can really believe that!

Becks consumed along with 2 pints of water I needed to pee so I headed off to the toilets and shower block building. I wasn’t until I was in there that I realised that I was barefoot so pee completed I thought a quick rinse under the shower was in order. I was only there a matter of seconds when a thought occurred to me. There was a men’s toilet, I never noticed the ladies, but there was only one lot of showers and they were all communal. Makes sense I suppose.

I decided on a last little dip in the pool another Becks Blue and as time was going on I’d have to leave although I really didn’t want to. The atmosphere was so relaxed and the people so friendly that I felt I could’ve stayed there for a lot longer if I could. I grabbed another beer and spoke to a chap in the bar for a bit before I took my drink back into the sun for a final cigarette before dragging my reluctant self away from the best day I’ve had in ages.

As a footnote let’s tell you this. On Sunday’s my Mom normally goes to my Auntie’s for luch and stays until the early evening. I chose not to tell that I was going to spend the biggest part of a day naked with a bunch of strangers as I thought as an 86 year old she’d be disgusted. I came up with some cock and bull story that I was off into the countryside to use my good camera to take some photographs. I also insisted that I was going alone. When I had parked the car I had switched my BlackBerry off and left it in the car. When I was driving back the phone rang and I pulled over into a lay-by to take the call. It was my Mom who said she’d been ringing me all afternoon and was worried that her 55 year old son was lying dead in a ditch somewhere. I told her I’d be with in 15 or 20 minutes which I was. My Mom then subjected me to an intensive questioning session (cue I never expected the Spanish Inquisition) asking me where I’d been etc etc. Initially I told her that I had no intention of telling her but she then asked me if I’d met up with an ex-girlfriend of 35 years ago. I explained patiently that I hadn’t and decided to just tell her exactly where I’d been. When I told her that I had taken day pass to go to a naturist club she looked confused for a moment and asked whether I meant nudist. I said yes except them British tend to say naturism whereas other countries say nudism. She then enquired as to why I didn’t tell her. I gently explained that I thought I’d upset her if I’d told her of my plans. She then said she didn’t mind and asked if I’d enjoyed myself and I told her that it was a great day, the best day I’d had in years.Then came the hammer blow, she looked at me and said,

“I wish you’d told me because then I could have gone down to my sister’s and you could have stayed there as long as you like.”

I guess honesty is the best policy

Ciao For Now



“Muddy Water, Let Stand, Becomes Clear.” ― Lao Tzu

I’ve not written anything new to publish here since last month. True I did upload a bit about Jimmy bloody Savile, but that in the main was written ages ago, so hello July! Normally a I feel compelled to write about something that I see or read or think and whack it here as a means of either letting off steam or sharing my views. I think that my mindset at the moment, and hopefully forever, will mean that there is a lot less steam and a lot less anger and self imposed pressure to write and post something here. However, this is getting us nowhere is it? I mean me writing about why I’ve not been writing is hardly enlightening now is it?

Pavlina tries to calm at next to waves, yoga a...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What do about it? This is a good starting point. Let’s kick our shoes off (preferably socks too) and sit in a circle on the floor. If you can still sit cross legged then please do so – even better is you can sit in the Lotus (or Half Lotus) position favoured by students or practitioners of yoga – and take the hand of the people on either side of you. Close your eyes and breathe in slowly but deeply through your nose and exhale slowly through your mouth. We’ll all try to do this in unison to achieve a collective sense of calm and relaxation. Clear your mind, don’t think of anything just allow your mind to clear and feel yourself breathe and the gentle tap of the pulse of those whose hands you hold. This clearing of the mind and slowing of the body will help you think more clearly and ultimately via the cursory contact with your fellows that in the main we are all fundamentally the same with the similar hopes and fears, the similar needs and desires. I don’t do Yoga or sit in a circle holding hands with people but I do sit quietly on my own just breathing deeply, eyes closed, to clear my mind and once I get up to continue my day I can be far more productive.

Some people would tell me that what I’m doing is praying, emptying my mind and relaxing my body to let some deity enter my consciousness. I don’t think that that is the case. Whilst it’s true that in times of crisis or death of a loved one people will congregate together in a religious edifice and genuine feel the spirituality of the occasion and indeed draw comfort from it, I’m not sure in my own mind that it has anything to do with the existence, or otherwise, of God. It’s the humanity, the shared experience of a momentous occasion with your fellows something you can extrapolate from our little hand holding relaxation experiment.

We all build barriers around ourselves. Barriers of false privacy which can be lowered. Experiences and feelings should be shared. For example, I’ve noticed recently that conversations between people are not really conversations. I’m not sure what a conversation actually is and whether there is any point or reason for having them apart from a verbal “Hello, I’m over here, I’m alive.” Do we actually know how to converse or is it merely an exchange of information? For my own part I’m not sure as most *manly* conversations seem to a complete and utter waste of time. Men’s conversations are usually a series of questions and statements about things and events and rarely about anything else even if they are close friends. In my (limited) experience men find it impossible to share their experiences and emotions with other chaps. A man would never consider telling his mates that they feel emotionally drained or hurt or whatever as that would probably be viewed as effeminate and not manly and would see that individual chased from the social circle with cries of “backs to the wall! Here comes ******”


(Photo credit: Emily Lewis)

Women I think are different as they can talk about feelings and they can offer support when things aren’t going so well. Women can offer each other a real shoulder to cry on in a way that men are unable to do. More than once I’ve seen women who are friends doing each others hair and make up, sorting out fingernails and even cutting and polishing each other’s toenails. There seems to be a level of intimacy in many women’s friendships that are totally absent in men’s. Women seem to be able to offer each other advice often through shared experience and an empathy that men just don’t have. Is that the essence of being a woman, being of an understanding and sympathetic nature? I don’t know – I really don’t.

Does that mean that all men talk can just about football and all women spend their entire lives giving each other pedicures? I know I’ve made some really sweeping generalisations her, but in terms of the basic stereotypes I don’t think that I’m a million miles away from the truth.

Ciao, For Now












Just Some Notes From An Unpublished Post

“I began to write this some time ago, just after the odious behaviour of Jimmy Savile came to light. In the time since then other high profile personalities have been convicted of similar offences and there may be more to follow given the recent stories over a missing dossier alleging a Westminster paedophile ring a few years ago.

Anyway these are just my rough notes, make of them what you will…………………”

Thatcher and Savile time machine...

. (Photo credit: 11thEarlOfMar)

“Some people get to a position of power or a position where they are idolised. The general public hang on to their public image that is managed and massaged by PR executives and those who make money on their backs. These influential or popular believe themselves to be special and that the rules don’t apply to them. The world is designed and built for their narcissistic enjoyment, nothing is off limits and every sordid desire is satisfied.

The narcissist can tell right from wrong but through his inability to empathise, he does not fully experience the outcomes of his deeds. For him his victims are dispensable, rechargeable, reusable. They are there to fulfil a function: to supply him with adoration, admiration, approval and to sate their sordid lusts.

Antisocial Personality Disorder (APD) is practically synonymous with criminal behaviour. The main characteristic of it is a complete and utter disregard for the rights of others and the rules of society. These people seldom show anxiety and don’t feel guilt. There’s really no effective treatment for them other than locking them up in a secure facility with such rigid rules that they cannot talk their way out.

1. Failure to conform to social norms;

2. Deceitfulness, manipulativeness;

3. Impulsivity, failure to plan ahead;

4. Irritability, aggressiveness;

5. Reckless disregard for the safety of self or others;

6. Consistent irresponsibility;

7. Lack of remorse after having hurt, mistreated  another person

So the Savile report is out. The BBC, the press and the TV are full of stories of the depravity of this weird character who seemed to all intents and purposes have a king sized grade-A mother fixation. That well known (conspiracy) theorist David Icke has speculated that Savile as well as being a sexual predator was also a Satanist. The Express even went as far as printing the testimony of a victim. Icke’s further claims are even more outrageous and he claims that he has received the information by “talking to people.” If he is aware of who (if any) Savile’s co conspirators in this vile predatory abuse were then he must seek to tell Yewtree and the world now and not make veiled assertions to potentially sell tickets and books.

Mind you I don’t see him doing anything of the kind anytime soon as he refers on his website to Yewtree thus -

“This is why Operation Yewtree, the mock ‘investigation’ into Savile’s crimes and connections, is such an obvious cover-up and damage limitation exercise.”

He goes on to say -

“I could explain to the mainstream media the whole background to this, ancient and modern, but they are too close-minded, too controlled and too programmed with a perception of me to be interested.”

Which to me seems like a good explanation of why if we don’t believe him it’s our fault. However, my intention is not to write about the eccentric Mr. Icke. He has his views and I have mine, but alien lizards Mr. Icke? That’s going really out there.

So back to Savile, aside from the obvious, who and what was he? Did anyone really know him? Did he have any depth to his character? For all his alleged high IQ did he have mental health issues? Perhaps not, which makes it easier for society to brand him “a stinking perv.” That’s all well and good but in doing that are we potentially allowing people to slip through the net as personality traits would be going undetected.”

And that’s it……except for saying that we as a society must make it easier for victims to speak out. The guilty must be punished by being incarcerated as they are beyond treatment.

If that makes me sound as if I’m an extremist then so be it.


The Body Is Nothing More Than A Vessel That Carries The Soul

Tattoo - Finished Time Lord seal on my shoulder 3

Photo credit: benchilada)

In my day to day life I seem to constantly hear people expressing dissatisfaction with the way they look. I suppose that much of that comes about because of the way in which the vast majority of us are educated. As children our mothers would brush our hair, wipe our faces and check our hands before we were allowed past the front door. As puberty set in we would preen and posture in an effort to be attractive to the opposite sex. Yes, it’ll all about appearance, sad to say but that’s the way it is. To a greater or lesser extent we all want to look good except that desire varies enormously from person to person. Take me for example, I could be slimmer, I could buy better clothes and new glasses, I could get a tattoo or two but really and truly those things don’t bother me and I feel no real compulsion to make any changes (Mind you part of me fancies a tattoo.) Would I value myself more if I had a tattoo and a slimmer fitter and more lithe body? I doubt it; I’d just be happy to be able to do more physical things without being knackered. For me having a “better” body is not a target but a by product of walking more, swimming, cycling and even being dragged out for a run with @beckytastic. There is a difference in that my pot belly would go because I was active rather than aiming to get rid of my pot belly by being active.

I came up with what I thought was an original and somewhat deep statement this morning only to find somewhat disappointingly that I was merely paraphrasing something said by others. Ah well, never mind eh? My statement was this:

“The body is nothing more than a vessel that carries the soul.”

Good that one isn’t it? I was going to put “Doc Denbow 29 June 2014” after it, but after finding I’d accidentally ripped it off I can’t in all conscience do that. What I was getting at should be self explanatory by the statement itself. We’re not good people because we are physically attractive or bad people because we’re not. Body shape, race or religion does not mark us out as being good or bad, we are who we are and we are and our personalities are largely shaped by what has happened in our lives. People feel pressure from all sides to look good, be it from the TV, the press and from “friends” going into virtual competition with them by joining slimming clubs or gyms in pursuit of body perfection. Little words and phrases have crept into our language that weren’t there a few years ago. “Cardio,” “Abs” and “Six Pack.” The “body beautiful” has become a 21st Century obsession.

English: Mickey Rourke at the 2009 Tribeca Fil...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Aside from the gym work and crash diets in pursuit of a perfect body, some people will submit to the surgeon’s knife in a vainglorious attempt to become who they used to be. However, their lineless faces devoid of wrinkles belie what I believe to be an underlying tragedy. Within each and every line and wrinkle on my face (and maybe your too) is etched experience both good and bad and of joy and sadness. By trying to eliminate these lines aren’t you endeavouring to eliminate the person you have grown into? Celebrities like Mickey Rourke, Kenny Rogers and most notably perhaps Michael Jackson put themselves in the hands of the medical profession with somewhat odd results, which I am sure you can search for yourself.

Let me state this, I am at this late age (55) trying to reject this way of thinking and body consciousness and it’s not easy. I’m having to try to re assess everything that has gone before me in my life. Maybe I’m just getting too deep and meaningful in my dotage, but some of the norms that society imposes on us is now beginning to baffle me. Something a friend said to me the other day really set me thinking. As I’ve mentioned in recent posts I’ve spent the last few weeks wearing my Croc flip flops continuously if I’m not barefoot; anyway me and a friend were about to set off to the pub to have a go at the pub quiz. Once I collected my wallet, keys and stuff together we just about to leave when he pointed to my feet and asked whether I was going to the pub wearing my flip flops. (It had been a scorching day) Immediately what ran through my mind was

“Is it appropriate?”

I hesitated and asked my mate what he thought and he replied to the effect that he wouldn’t, but they were the most appropriate because if it decided to throw it down bare feet in Crocs will dry quicker than a pair of leather shoes. So yes bare feet were appropriate in this case.

What about bare “everything else,” is that ever appropriate? I guess that 99% of the population would not be able to stand naked even next to friends, especially if these friends were of the opposite sex. I believe that’s simply because we have grown up unable to accept ourselves and more to the point our bodies. We are supposed to believe that young girls get breast implants on the NHS as they are being bullied because of their appearance, and this is largely a myth perpetuated in crappy newspapers like The D**** M***. These girls want bigger breasts because they have become conditioned into thinking that having big tits makes you a happier and more rounded person. (no pun intended) If these young women, and indeed older women, had been brought up in a liberal and free thinking family where people talked, then this type of stuff would be seen for what it is – unimportant.

What about “bare everything else” though? A straw poll amongst people I know seems to fall into two distinct categories. One category seeing naturists/nudist as “weirdos” and the other being very much “laissez-faire.” When I’ve asked if any other the latter group had ever gone naked a lot of women admitted that they had been topless in Spain on their holidays but that was all. A few from both groups thought that naked people gathering in one place was overtly sexual. Is public nudity ever appropriate? I’m very much in a different group.

Whilst I do understand that there are a lot of people among the general population that find public nudity inappropriate I see nothing wrong with a bunch of like minded individuals finding a place to swim, sunbathe or just do whatever they wish nude. I personally cannot see what the big deal is; I really can’t. How many people in the UK are living or want to explore this way of life is open to question, but presumably for many it’s a permanent way of life, if only for holidays and weekend breaks. I don’t suppose people would stick with the lifestyle unless they found it beneficial.

I’ve read time and again that people find spending time naked with other naturists/nudists is an empowering experience and that there is acceptance and an openness that is not usually seen in “normal” society. Hopefully in those situations whether fat, thin, tall or short becomes incidental as “the body is nothing more than a vessel that carries the soul”

“Without clothing, you are who you are,” they say.



Lizzie & Her Shoes

This morning I made a catastrophic error. I had made a cup of tea and plonked myself down at the kitchen table when I reached for my iPad. Before you worry on my behalf there was not no tea/iPad related calamity, just a grave error of judgement on my part. I checked my emails (none worthwhile) and my Facebook feed. I then checked my Twitter timeline in the vain glorious hope that someone had sent me an unsolicited @ message (no one had) so I closed the app. I tapped on the Mercury browser icon to see what the big wide world of the internet had to offer. For some reason I decided to visit that bastion of bigotry The Daily Mail. I was met with some earth shattering news as the lead story. This news at the time I read it was the most important thing that The Daily Mail could write about, it was top of the pile and numero uno. I have no doubt that your breath is truly bated waiting for Denbow to relate to you just as to what this story, this piece of high journalism was all about. In that case I have no choice but to tell you.

Queen of United Kingdom (as well as Canada, Au...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It was all about Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II and her shoes. I was flabbergasted that our Queen, our Monarch, the Head Of the Church Of England has feet and on those feet she wears shoes. Did you know that; the thought had never occurred to me? I have, in all of years of existence upon this mortal coil, never really given much thought to the monarch’s feet. Is there a Royal Podiatrist? It turns out that there is a Royal Cordwainer, or a pair of geezers who supply our Queen with made to measure shoes. Now I’m happy for our Queen that she has nice shoes and I’m happy that she can afford to get them made to measure, I truly am. However, I don’t really see that the Queen being particularly partial to a certain style of footwear that has barely changed across the years as being particularly newsworthy. Sorry to be controversial, but that’s how I see it. Some of the quotes from the article are preposterous.

“From the Diamond Jubilee pageant to this week’s prison visit in Northern Ireland, the shoes are a firm favourite.”

“The dress worn in 1984 is from another era, but the black patent shoes are becoming a fixture. Then in 1987 the Queen was elegant in Spain – and her shoes have since survived the reign of King Juan Carlos.”

“Her shoes have occasionally been ‘worn in’ by Angela Kelly, her devoted personal assistant, as they have almost the same size feet. But now there is the aforementioned junior staff member ‘Cinders’, who is the same size exactly. She wears beige cotton ankle socks when testing the Queen’s shoes, and is only allowed to walk on carpets. The shoes then get one trial run outside to ensure there is no slippage.”

That’s the thing about the press, and not just The Daily Mail, they don’t just notice they intrude. At the end of the day, bottom line etc etc does it really matter one job about the Queen’s choice of shoes? Why is it thought that we care that someone from TOWIE is sleeping with someone who is the mate of the bloke who failed to get in the X Factor? I mean who really cares? I suppose those that care have lives that really are very empty and they have to live their lives via the “glamour” of a TV Chav on holiday in Ibiza and the monarch’s footwear.

Oh Well



Flip Flop Crocs And Stripy Feet

English: Dangerous sunbathing.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Normally in the summer I hide away indoors and keep away from the sunshine. Quite why I can’t remember anymore because in years gone I was out there on the beach and in the sea or even working in the garden taking advantage of sunny hot days. I do burn easily and once had prickly heat (think that’s what it was) and since then I don’t seem to have bothered. Getting anything approaching a tan was always a by product of being outdoors in summer if you know what I mean. I’ve never lolled around in the sun trying to change colour, which has struck me as odd. The one thing I don’t like about my body is its colour. My skin is so white that I appear to have been dipped in brilliant white emulsion and to be honest I don’t like it. It’s that I guess that makes me feel bad about my body so whilst I can I’m exposing bits of me to the sun so the rays have help to alleviate that problem.

Of course my biggest worry about sunning myself is sunburn. I’ve never had the need for any sun protection products, or haven’t had for years, so I suppose that if my white body is going to take advantage of being exposed to the sun then some skin care will be necessary. From past experience I know I can burn like bread left under the grill for too long and I really wish to avoid that unpleasant and painful result.

Croc Flip-Flops

(Photo credit: Tobyotter)

I’m not that concerned to be fair as here in the UK the opportunities to get anything approaching a suntan would be limited to a tanning salon or fake tan from Boots. Of course there those folks who take a foreign holiday every year and the end up brown as berries and this seems to last year round. Of course having fair hair and blue eyes I suppose I’m never going to have those Latin skin tones but if I got myself outside on nice days, well who knows? In terms of tanning, my feet are doing rather quite well thank you very much. Due to the fact I have been wearing Croc flip flops almost constantly for the past couple of weeks I am in the process of developing rather fetching stripey feet. In fact to my way of thinking it adds a certain something to an otherwise under appreciated pair of appendages, so much so it makes me (almost) sad that it’s hardly *de rigueur* for a chap to paint his toenails as that may complete the look in the foot department; especially if a tattoo was added at a later date.

Daily 'hate' Mail parody 02

(Photo credit: Byzantine_K)

When it comes to the UK it goes to show what a crap climate we have that because of a few really hot days 21C and higher (pushing 25 in places) the newspapers are full of stories about how hot it is. Picture after picture of people sitting on assorted beaches and in parks looking way too hot. My “favourite” newspaper The Daily Mail even decided it was appropriate to picture 3 16 year old students posing in bikinis. I’m far from prudish but I do feel that the “journalist” and photographer on the spot was rather taking advantage of their naivety by getting these kids to pose. Nothing illegal of course, but as a parent I would be happy to see a picture of my 16 year old daughter in a bikini in the Daily Mail; or is it just me who thinks like that? Answers on a postcard to that one.

That’s the thing with this weather, the press use it to turn their attentions away from the famous and the politicians and they turn their intrusive paparazzi lenses on us. People like you and me on the beach will be photographed discreetly (or not) and added to their stories of sunshine. I must say if a journo and his photographer asked me if I minded they took a picture of me then I’d ask him if he would mind if I kicked him in his “gentleman parts” in return. That no doubt would keep me out of the papers but these days of everyone wanting to be on Big Brother or The Only Way Is Chav and other crap like it scores of thickos would form a (dis)orderly queue desperate for their 15 minutes of fame.

15 minutes? It wouldn’t even be that long




A Return To “Return To Caswell Bay”

If you are one of long standing readers then you’ll know that there are a few recurring themes that raise their ugly and annoying heads fairly regularly. These themes by and large irritate me almost beyond belief so what are they doing to the peeps who read my blog? Anyway let’s get down to brass tacks….

I have expressed over and over ad nauseum how much I love writing and want to write a novel. I’ve put some rough bits and pieces here in case anyone was remotely interested in having a quick look. I’m really not sure what my motivation was for adding those scribbles here. Was I hoping to be “discovered” or was I hoping to have a deluge of blog followers tell me how great I am that I am super talented? Well, that’s never going to happen is it? I just need to be realistic and without screaming and shouting from the rooftops about each and every plan that I have and just quietly go out and do it and maybe share the experience here with you readers when it’s complete

I had a Tweet from a learned chappie who’d obviously been scrutinizing my blog and the micro chat really made me think.

Jay @bilstonjay Jun 19
@docdenbow could do with more Return to Caswell Bay. You think you’ll ever finish it?

Denbow @docdenbow Jun 19
@bilstonjay do you think what I’ve written is any good? That’s the one I feel like having a bash at…

Jay @bilstonjay Jun 19
@docdenbow its alright mate. I’m interested to see what happens.

I’ve read that little exchange a few times and I’ve realised that no one is going to be interested in reading half baked little drafts for novels and short stories that will never be written and I hidden the contents away. What I have decided is to go back to work on the *serious* side of my writing and try to write with much more discipline and organization than before. I’ll continue to blog and use my MicroBlog section to add thoughts and a few diary like comments and I’ll express myself here as I’ve always done offering my opinions on different things and issues.

English: Caswell Bay in September sunshine.

Caswell Bay (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s occurred to me that blogging in the main is very presumptuous in that here’s me a middle aged bloke, Mr Ordinary if you like, expressing opinions on things that he knows very little about. My sheer nerve and egocentricity in writing and writing and writing believing that I’m changing the world is bothering me. What gives me the write to slag off UKIP, the Daily Mail, comment on tattoos, get maudlin over Scott Walker and so on and so on and expect people to read. I’ve written about nudism, naturism and body image issues and feel hypocritical as I have never gone as our American friend would say “butt naked,” not that it’ll give me a problem, it’s just that perhaps sharing intentions before the event….well, it smacks of searching to be a part of something to me or a desperate attempt to get attention. Conversely am I looking for a cure all to life’s ills?

Whatever, I wont bore anyone who reads my blog with “I’m going to do this” stories anymore, but I hope that I’ll be able to write about things that I have done or do know about or express my opinions in a cooler more logical way.

Finally, for the last time I will promise something, say I’m going to do something and I’ll deliver.

I am going to finish writing my novel (working title “Return To Caswell Bay”) It may take a while to get back into the swing of things, but there I’ve said it now. So back to Microsoft Word and leave me to crack on.


P.S. There is one other thing and hopefully I’ll be able to  share that experience very soon. ;0)