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There are times to scratch that itch. There are also times you really shouldn’t.

April 11th, 2014 · 2 Comments

I am not easily offended. Especially by nudity.  In fact quite the opposite and I have zero problem if a woman wants to walk around with very little clothes on and if anything I actively encourage it. I know, I am a martyr. What can I say, you are right.

Recently in Germany I was confronted with a sign that read “No shirt, no shoes, no pants…NO PROBLEM!”. I would have taken a photo of it, but…well…read on and you will understand why photography was not maybe high on the list of “Things we actively encourage”.

As I stood there in just my socks feeling decidedly overdressed (hey, they didn’t say “no socks” and I have really ugly feet so while I was completely naked except for my feet, at least I didn’t feel uncomfortable), I found myself wandering about with a load of overweight German men with no clothes on. There were no women.

There was an individual who seemed to be repeatedly scratching himself a little more than I had bargained for…at least I think he was scratching himself. The way he watched other naked men wander around the spa at the same time as having that vigorous scratch meant he was either a little less bothered than the rest of us at the utter lack of naked women in the spa, or he was needing a trip to the Dr to maybe resolve whatever he caught from the toilet seat.
I mean, it is good to share, but don’t share your flaking rash skin on the lounger where your nuts are currently sat ready for the next gentleman to sit down and rest his love marbles on. How does he explain the oncoming rash to his wife/girlfriend? “Oh yeah, I was at this spa and some guy was flaking the skin off of his nuts. Then I sat in it. And I caught what he had”. What woman is EVER going to believe this? It is grounds for divorce based on the utter lie…even though in this case would have been utterly true.

Can I just…you know…for clarification purposes…well…it wasn’t me scratching the dead skin from my body, nor the person later on resting his giggleberries on said other man’s flaked skin. Nor do I actually know if someone caught something. I was an innocent, if not slightly confused bystander looking at the potential for something really bad to happen.

I don’t quite understand where the line gets drawn. I stand in a changing room with other men, all of us feverishly drying our privates as if to get a shine so clear that the sun glows off of them and then spending about 3 seconds on the rest of our bodies. It is generally the done thing. We stand chatting while we swing from side to side while doing things and your mate thinks nothing of bending over right in front of you and as you turn around you are faced with…well…lets just say you hope you don’t find out what he had for lunch. And you then book him in for a back sack and crack wax.

So why…when stood in an outdoor spa with a bunch of guys you will never see again who can’t even speak English and because of the weather, you are all not having the best day “down there”, is it a problem? Of course, for the Germans it just isn’t. But for a pasty Englishman in his first nudist spa, well…I didn’t spend too long in there. Mostly because anyone checking in to the hotel attached…the reception looked straight out over the spa. So as you stand there naked as the day you were born (I had removed my socks by this point, I felt uncomfortable in them…they had a hole in one of the toes) thinking “Bit chilly…looking a little smaller than normal” as you look up and some young girls are checking in and looking out…well…I got an itch. And scratched.

There I was. Standing in a nudist spa. Scratching my balls looking at some 20something year old girls. I didn’t go back in to the spa later…and I repeat…I was not the guy on the lounger nor did I catch anything.

Stop judging me.

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I nearly became a serial murderer statistic..maybe. Probably not.

April 3rd, 2014 · No Comments

A couple of weeks ago I found myself in Germany.

By “found myself”, I don’t mean I went on some magical hippy crap adventure where I spent days surrounded by incense sticks, said “Hummmmmm” a lot surrounded by people blatantly wearing just their pyjamas but honestly believe it is “hemp clothing made by lesbian geese in Norway” or something and I now know that my calling in life is that I should make shoes for underprivileged  mice with 3 legs.  I mean it was a surprise trip for my birthday and I didn’t know until we got there (hint:  We landed in a different country….so I really didn’t know).

And that is where the weirdness started.

We stayed in a health spa near the Black Forest which wasn’t black at all.  Just like the black sea.  Not black.  Just say what it is and don’t lie about the colour.  I mean really.  If you buy a bag of apples, you expect apples.  If you buy a cream to reduce the size of your hemorrhoids, you don’t expect to find that tube actually contains a very potent chilli paste that will have you tearing the things from your body with your bare hands.  But anyway, on checking in we were presented the spa owner.  A man who is best described as “This bloke will turn up with a spade to kill us with in the middle of the night”.  Literally the most scary arsed looking bloke I ever saw.  He wasn’t tall.  Nor built like a house.  But he was wearing dungarees, was foreign….and well…I wanted to take a photo of him so I could send it to loved ones so should I go missing, look for this guy.  But I couldn’t exactly just point my camera at him and take a photo.  So I have put an artistic representation below.  I should mention that the “artist” is me.  Thus…well, don’t expect much.

See what I mean?  Look at him!  If you were checking in to somewhere that outside your window is a vast forest that nobody would find you in, would you question it?  Yes.  You would.

But we had a plan.  A cunning plan.  We asked him for the best walks through the forest.  What he would recommend.  He told us.  We went in the exact opposite direction.  Yup.  Genius.

Of course, there was that small matter of what if he WASN’T a murderer.  Just one of those freaky scary looking blokes who when someone goes missing, the police go straight to him but he always has an alibi because he is actually a perfectly nice man and mother nature decided to make him look like someone who will batter you to death in the middle of the night while you sleep and then drag your lifeless carcass to the forest and bury you.  That would be unfortunate.  But, well, he had dungarees on….yet he was working the check in desk.  Why would he?  I mean sure, there was a load of work going on and maybe he was doing that BUT I DONT KNOW.

Look…fine….maybe, just maybe I looked and saw danger where a perfectly nice German man stood.  My bad.  It happens.  It happens a lot.  Look at Facebook….a perfect example.  People with little knowledge of the real world are given the ability to write things which many will read.  I have several friends who do a “RIP” post for absolutely anyone who dies without actually doing any homework.  But someone died….they need to mention it to look worldly.  One of my FB friends I am genuinely concerned would, had they and Facebook been alive back around the time of WW2 post “RIP Adolf.  A great man trying to bring us all together”.  Because that person really has no grasp of reality…and if they read this, well, they wont even realise.  So I am safe.  Actually, proof…I am fairly confident (I could really be making this up, but then, this is not exactly a journalistic heaven on this site is it) that they actually posted “I am going to miss those crazy glasses!” when Kim Jong-il died.  It wasn’t a joke.

Where was I?  I’ve come waaaay off track.  Oh yeah.  I remember.  Yeah, that German bloke….total murderer.  No doubt in my head.

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