Sitting on the beach today, huddled up against a sand dune trying to keep out of the SHG, when this condescending surf lifesaver who sounded like he’d recently got off the boat (or possibly the plane) from the Old Country (our country has only had human inhabitants and a continuous culture for more than 60,000 years, but we call England the Old Country) came up to me and told me I had to move, as there are snakes in the dunes. I told him I know, I’ve been coming here for thirty years, but I haven’t heard of anyone being bitten by a snake yet. I said if he was worried about everybody, his time would be better spent getting everyone out of the ocean, because there are sharks in it. He was insistent that I move, and I was as insistent that I wouldn’t. Anyway, I won.
I reckon the importance of these surf club types is greatly exaggerated. I must swim between the flags, keep out of the way of the IRB activities that nearly run you over, watch out for their idiotic wooden boats that they keep narrowly missing you with, and with which they’ve never rescued anyone. Jesus, it’s my beach too. Then they pack up and go home at five o’clock, two or three hours before sunset, and no one drowns in their absence. Or gets bitten by a snake. So, what were they doing all day, apart from parading around with their Speedos pulled up their cracks? At least we can have some peace in the evening.
I recall a past Premier advising us to swim between their flags to avoid sharks, as they keep eating people. Now, our beach is about four kilometres long, and the flags are about 30 metres apart. Seriously, if we follow his advice, it’s going to get awfully crowded. And, what about surfers and scuba divers? Also, what to do after 5 pm? You really should have to pass some sort of IQ test before you’re allowed to run for parliament.