Tch, In This Day And Age...

I can't believe what happened tonight. Let me start with today. A leisurely rising was executed (hah) before the good lady and I began our journey to Stoney Cove - not a hippy commune on a beach, but one of the UK's leading watersports venues, diving and waterskiing most notably. Both of which I, oh, I just lurve. The minor annoyance of being unable to join one of the main motorways of the United Kingdom from central Birmingham, at least in the direction I wished to travel - and until December, by the way - was soon replaced by the bliss of being on the right heading, given a junction's journey on the M6 in absolutely the wrong mode.

On approach, I was sure that even modern GPS technology had brought us to entirely the wrong place. I was wrong. Despite being led through nice, middle-class suburbia, all nail-clipped lawns, mock Tudor and all - we popped out the other side and soon Stoney Cove was in our sights. It's an old quarry that has been filled, not only with water but aircraft, cars, tanks, estate cars, VW camper vans, and so on, for both fish to nestle in and divers to bumble about around. You will be glad to hear that diving and waterskiing happen at different times of day. The place was heaving. Divers come with a lot of kit. You can pretty much count on a 50 litre basket for tanks, BCD, spider, mask, snorkel and fins. Then there's the wet/drysuit bag, gloves, balaclavas, and so on. Everyone has a big holdall, and a big crate. And then there's the fact that it's not just a pair of you. Most dive with clubs, and so the club is there. Ten, maybe fifteen of them, have all bombed up the M1 to Leicestershire, one I saw from fucking Greenwich. Jesus. You're on the Thames Estuary and about 30 miles from The Channel. Isn't there enough water about down there? Finding a parking space was a challenge, but soon we were out and watching people disappear beneath the surface, to be replaced by moving, effervescent trails of bubbles, surfacing.

We spent about four hours there, mooching about watching beginners go through their buddy checks and basics, while the old hands kit up from their vans, nod at each other and dive in. Not literally. You shouldn't actually dive in when going diving, you'll do yourself a mischief. The on-site dive shop claimed to be the biggest in the UK, and to be honest, they could be right, it's huge. They have everything, except the shortie wetsuit I wanted in the right size. I did get a very nice chocolate brown t-shirt with the profile of three manta rays heading towards you, rendered in sky blue. The make is Fourth Element, so I'm hoping that carries some diver kudos. Please tell me I haven't just bought the Mark I of diving gear? Once we'd farted around in the shop, mainly on clothes and wetsuit try-ons, we headed down to the Front Desk for what was hoped for, and had been hoped for these last eight months. The good lady bought me a dive computer - a watch that measures, well, all the important things you should monitor whilst diving - last Christmas. You can get some software for it that downloads all the data from your DC to your PC, though I'd been online and found a lot of 'it doesn't work, don't waste your time' type comments on messageboards. You can get a USB or Serial port version - it turned out they only had serial, and it was £30 cheaper than the USB model, so why not? Fuck the naysayers, let's give it a go. Finally able to conclude the worship of Mammon, we dumped the purchasings in the car - together with a mountain of dive gear brochures - and headed for Nemo's Bar & Diner. Nemo's is a pub inside, replete with 'underwater' movie posters - Jaws, The Abyss, 20 Thousand Leagues Under The Sea, The Poseidon Adventure, etc - and lots of 'boaty stuff'. Portholes. Brass signs. Bells. Ropework. Glass cases with model boats, fish and sharks' teeth in. Outside, they take advantage of their lakeside location with aplomb, with a big outdoor area jutting out from the front directly over the lake, and with an esplanade-style seating area to the the side.

I got drinks from the bar, while the lass nabbed seats outside. After choosing our food, she went up and ordered, before we pored over the literature culled from the piles in the shop. The one main thing about diving is cost. It's expensive to learn, and then, once you have learnt, it's not the cheapest hobby in the world. And it's not transferrable kit. It's not like justifying a laptop computer, which can be used for many things. Diving kit is very activity-specific, unless you plan to do a lot of snorkelling too. And then, you don't need most of what you need for diving. But looking through these brochures, James Bond fantasies were welling to the surface. The food came, and while the chips disappointed, the ciabattas - containing cajun chicken for myself, and cajun vegetables for the good lady - were spectacular. The onion rings were also superb. We wandered about the place a little more after lunch, the setting really is beautiful. It's like a wee gem hidden away amongst the nasty. We got back in the car and headed for home, having felt like we'd got away from Birmingham for a teeny bit. I'm pleased to say that the software worked perfectly and that I now have a full diving record - at least, the diving I've done since having the computer - downloaded to PC. You can enter a phenomenal amount of data into it, the detail really is, often, crazy. Not if you're doing it every single day, I guess. Once I'd done that and the missus had seen all the dive profiles and on-gassing records and suchlike, we had our dinner.

P and M had contacted me while I was getting my Nando's, and had been on a bike trip of some magnitude already today, not to mention a drinking session of some magnitude. Rather boisterously, they insisted that I came out for a minor roister and, after some negotiation with her indoors, I was off into the night towards Gas Street Basin's notorious Tap & Spile (see Time Flies When You're Having Fun, July 2006). Save their temporary inability to locate the pub correctly from canalside, we were soon having our beers in the fresh-ish air of central Birmingham. We talked about bikes, about diving, about boats, and Wales, and countryside. One pint down, P went for refills. While M and I waited outside, a seemingly-het-up young chap came storming past us and slams his way into the pub via the canalside entrance, which we are standing by. What was all that about? I said, noticing the testy fella. Dunno, said M, before we drifted back into the ephemera of conversation.

P returns with the beer. You're gonna love this, he says. Some random, fucked bloke just came in as I was getting the pints. I was talking to the barman about where he was from. I'd narrowed it down to Eastern Europe. North or south? I'd pushed. North, says the barman. Suddenly, this mad bloke is next to me. Mate! Mate! Where's me girlfriend? Ya know, the wun I was in 'ere wiv? The barman looks blankly. P thinks unilaterally. Well, mate, this Arab came in on his camel and we sold her. He rode off that way with her. We've shared the money. Fire lit up in the eyes of the crazy man, and he stormed off in the indicated direction taken by the Arab and his camel. Lithuania? P guessed. The barman's face lit up. Very good, my friend...

That's funny, that's the bloke we saw coming in here a minute ago, I offer. In fact, this bloke coming along here. The idiot is walking towards us, and I immediately notice that he is holding a glass ashtray. Oh, for fuck's sake, is my first thought. Suddenly he's up at P's face. What did you say in there? Where's my missus? What've you done with 'er? P's like, look, mate, what are you gonna do? Are you gonna hit me? Come on, hit me. I've no fucking idea where your missus is. But you told me some shit about an Arab, is that not true? No, mate, it's not true, he didn't ride off with your missus on a camel. It was an elephant. Now, fucking hit me or fuck off. The chap softens, his shoulders slump. P puts his arm around his shoulder and pats him gently on the chest. I was just taking the piss, mate, don't worry. I don't know anything about your bird. The fool steps away. That's cool, I can see you're a cool guy, I just came out here with this ashtray to hit you with it, but I won't now, you're cool. He slings the ashtray in the canal. P stiffens. He hadn't seen the ashtray. Suddenly, he's on him. Sorry? You came out here? With an ashtray? To hit me? You fucking cunt. And P pushes him towards the canal's edge. With a final shove, a moment's teeter, the muppet is in the drink. Now, I'd fuck off if I were you, taunts a drier P at his dripping counterpart. He drags himself out of the canal and fronts up to P again. Go on mate, hit me, I fucking dare you. Come on. Either fucking hit me or fuck off. Just do something.

M steps in and takes him roughly from behind. Getting him into the classic headlock, there's right bicep and forearm pincing the throat, while left hand pushes the head into the pincers. He's taken off his feet and held, M going fucking crazy - at least verbally. I'm glad to have seen a sense of restraint from him tonight. You are gonna just fuck off, now! Do you fucking understand? I can't hear you! Do you understand?! Yes or no? Are you gonna fuck off? The guy is tapping M's head for all he's worth, his face is blue. M lets him go and he rolls towards the canalside. He's breathing in a raspy way, like he's just nearly been strangled, but he's alive and the colour is back in his cheeks. He's coughing in this horrendous, hacky way, with his face skywards. Are you going home now, M bellows as he towers over the crippled numpty. Are you going home? Then - and this is the classic, especially if you know M and you know how he can do things - M leans down and bitch-slaps him, open palmed, but so hard it sounded like a punch. Wowzers. The twat got up and hobbled off, having learnt a swift, wet and painful lesson about walking up to strangers, minding their own business having a nice night out with friends, with the intent of hitting them with glass objects. Twat.

As you can imagine, we spent the rest of the evening talking about it, and I couldn't wait to get home to get it down on here. Marvellous. Felt like a teenager again, all that adrenalin rushing up from your fingers and toes up the limbs towards the heart and you know that, once it gets there, you can slay.