Earlier today I was humbly taught the lesson that having letters after your name don’t mean shit to the Mango crew. For two weeks I have been a graduate, smugly under the impression that I’m really a cut above the rest of the hoo-ha’s making up this blog. I was wrong. I’m still prone to the same moments of social agony Phil or Burr or any of the others experience on occasion. In fact, from today’s experience I’m prone to even worse…
Since returning to Belfast I’ve been swimming in the Queens University PEC. On returning from the pool today I crouched down to my locker to get my stuff just as a fully naked young man started to get his own gear out of the locker directly above. No towel! No nothing! Clasping my inhaler, goggles and swim cap in my left hand I frantically tried to put my key in the lock, but it wasn’t budging. I had to move in closer… I.e. Closer to the penis. Meanwhile the man’s lock seemed to have jammed. Goddamn lock! Why doesn’t anybody fix them. Don’t they realise situations like this are going to inevitably happen without working lockers?!
So I timidly croaked, “Hi, can I just quickly get my stuff?”, desperate to sound as heterosexual as possible and act as if I was completely oblivious to the huge wang flopping around in my face. No acknowledgement from him… I asked him again to move but to no avail. And so, I had to dive in head first. The key clicked, I flung open the locker and grasped my shoes and bag while I could and bolted for the private changing space.
The lesson I learned? Never again put my stuff in locker 756.