Open Water Swim

Pull on your swimsuit, then hat, goggles, hat,

Slap on Vaseline (cheaper than goose fat)

Your numbers tattooed all over your bod,

Then line up on the deck, praying to God.

 

Jump in the brown lake, afloat with filth and murk,

Don’t disturb the mudflats where psychotic pike might lurk.

The chill shrinks your lungs and takes your breath away,

But as the klaxon blasts, just forget fair play.

Your fellow swimmers grab your legs, scramble, kick and flail

(You understand now why you’ve been told to clip your nails)

 

You swim with head up, squinting around for marker buoys,

Encouraged and urged on by the crowd’s roaring noise.

But then on glancing up you see lots of weirdos-

They’ve only come to see Mark Foster in Speedos.

 

You feel slimy weed between fingers and toes

And foul, rancid water bubbling up your nose.

You’re likely to inhale loose, bobbing duck poo

Making it more entertaining for the TV crew.

 

At last you reach the finish line to a resounding cheer-

What d’ya reckon, Canvey Crew – gonna join us next year?