Christmas is coming and we have no need of goose fat...
Exactly how much shite can one man buy on eBay? A newsletter to find out...
If I’m giving you a present this year, there’s an extremely high chance it will be olive oil. Organic olive oil. This is because, due to an error on Lee’s part in managing what I now understand to be an ongoing subscription service, we currently own fifteen litres of it. If you’re having trouble imagining what fifteen litres of organic olive oil looks like, simply imagine the most giant, wide-necked, catering-sized, two-foot-high container on god’s green earth, and then also imagine that there’s three of them in our house right now.
Fifteen litres of olive oil. F I F T E E N L I T R E S.
The current situation is that there is no cupboard in existence big enough to keep even one of these enormous flagons in, so they’re currently clustering around the washing machine like a malevolent reminder of our general ineptitude. How do we amend the subscription? Nobody knows.
It’s possible it will continue in perpetuity until we are all deceased and/or bankrupt. So while we rack our brains to think of new meals we could fry, (salad??) somebody somewhere with an olive grove is laughing at us from their Lamborghini.
I wondered idly, late one Tuesday last week, whether 15 litres would be enough to cover my entire body. If I slathered myself in enough of it, would it share the insulating properties of goose fat, and lessen the effect of the momentary madness which had just overtaken me? I’d been listening to a podcast of the brilliant book Wintering. It invites us to consider the transformational power of winter, and how we respond to it. Whether we lean into, or away from challenges in our own lives. Something about this particular episode, or more accurately, the two glasses of wine I’d sunk whilst listening to it, inspired me to take action myself.
What better time to begin the extreme and slightly stupid hobby of wild outdoor lake swimming than in the deepest depths of belligerent December? I’d thought, merrily clicking away until I’d booked myself onto a swim session for the very next morning.
Fuuuuuuck.
In a fit of (slightly uncharacteristic for an outdoor activity) bonhomie, Lee decided to book too, and so we found ourselves, shivering in the pale morning light by a glassy lake on the nearby country estate. Me, jittery with nervous excitement. Lee, cursing the day I was born along with all my stupid ideas, ever, probably. A jovial lifeguard explained to us that the water was a bracing 7degrees that day, and enquired politely whether we’d been before.
I caught the slight way his smile faltered for a fraction of a second as I brightly explained that No! This was our first time! Ever! Was there anything we needed to know?! He quickly looked us up and down, presumably to assess how hard it would be to drag our frozen lifeless corpses back up the field we’d just walked down, before explaining that the main thing was to just keep calm. Breathe out, and keep calm.
“The time you hesitate is the time you get cold”, he went on. “The trick is not to hesitate. Climb in down these steps here, breathe, and just go”.
Right you are then. I stripped down to my cheap, thin shortie wetsuit, Lee to his swim shorts. Was it too late to nip home for a litre or so of olive oil to lube me up? I wondered. Or perhaps they kept a block of lurpak on site for just this purpose? We made our way tentatively down to the little jetty, me bobble-hatted and mincing like a prick in the chill air, Lee majestically bare chested like Putin on a horse, albeit if Putin had enjoyed a somewhat less military lifestyle and got lost on his way home from Malaga.
It was now or never. No hesitation. In I went first, descending the ladder as the icy lake enveloped me, ankle to shoulder. Breathe out – fuuuck it’s hard to breathe out when all your body wants to do is contract until you hyperventilate – BREATHE OUT DICKHEAD, and then I was off, launching into a mildly panicked breaststroke. There’s a giant buoy in the middle of the lake but I’m buggered if I’m heading off away from safety, so I cling to the line of the shore. “I can stop at any time” my brain reminds me grimly. Already, I can’t feel my fingers.
The world contracts to a pinpoint. Every breath takes concentration. I’m halfway along the lake before I remember that I am, actually, swimming, and that I could probably put a bit more effort into the ‘moving’ part, as well as the mental work of merely staying conscious.
On some other planet I can hear the distant cheering of the lifeguard.
The water is silky, smooth like cold fire.
I am doing this. I am doing this!
Calculating that if I turned around now, I might be able to swim back to the jetty before my arms freeze solid and I drown, I turn, just in time to see two things in quick succession. One is my husband, lowering himself into the water and splashing off into a swim. The second is all this, but in instant reverse, as he made an extremely swift exit, grinning from ear to ear and shouting a wild string of expletives. My freezing brain notes in a detached way that his skin is a seared shade of flaming pink from the cold.
Making it out, elated, we’re both ushered into a draughty makeshift marquee to change. I feel so alive! I am invincible! I am IMMORTAL!! Also, I can’t feel my hands, but WHO NEEDS HANDS motherfuckers, I went SWIMMING. In WINTER. Have that! What I could use perhaps is a little privacy to wrestle my numb and tingling body into some clothes, but jolly lifeguard is now busy chatting to us both about the transformative effects of cold water on our general health, and how he has actually swum what’s known as an ‘ice-mile’ in arctic waters, and other (in my opinion) non-time-critical information. Eventually I give up trying to hide behind my tiny towel and just throw on everything I’ve brought. Can he see my bare arse? I no longer care. I’m buzzing. Cold as fuck, but buzzing. We’re advised not to shower until we’re fully warmed up, and thanking him, the water, the stars, the universe, we head home flying high with the thrill.
I’m so pumped I head straight to my desk, not even taking my jacket or hat off. I’m not truly warm yet, so instead make myself a hot drink and get cracking on the day’s work at record pace. I have never felt so ALIVE. I am so efficient! I am incredible!! I swam in an icy lake FOR LOLZ and SURVIVED! I AM FUCKING IBIZA!!
I am also, as I realise with a jolt later while queuing to pay at the petrol station, still dressed completely as a bobble-hatted jumble sale, and wearing not one stitch of underwear, having entirely forgotten to get showered or dressed after finally warming up.
But no matter. We did it. Without olive oil too. Truly, a Christmas miracle.
Jolly good stuff
Ooooooh well it’s nearly Christmas. We’re determined NOT to have a re-run of that year that Lee had to save Christmas, but looking forward to seeing my family and being pissed by (conservative estimate) 10am. Not looking good for my NYE birthday again this year thanks to the continued spread of a highly contagious and potentially lethal virus, but *shrugs what are you going to do. (Answer: get vaccinated, obviously)
Here’s a few links to things I have found amusing of late for you to enjoy with a shoeful of Baileys and a kilo of cheese…
Not sure what to watch on telly tonight? This might help.
I found out this week that a good friend who I don’t really hear from that often but still consider to be an all round Good Sort is actually quite far down some conspiracy theory wormholes, including ones about covid. In the spirit of healthy philosophical discussion, I have listened and followed some of the links he sent me on which some of his views are based. It took all I could do, but I resisted the urge to send back this video by way of reply. I can’t remember if he subscribes to this, but if so - sorry B! (I am Not Sorry.)
I don’t know why, but I found this festive advert compilation unreasonably enjoyable. It made me laugh so much I had to watch it about five times. Please let me know which product is your favourite. For me, it was the sharing bird…
Look, I know arcane bullshit over-indexes on this newsletter but what are you going to do about it? Thanks for coming, leave your pounds on the side and good night vienna. etc.
Finally, Tom Cardy, the gift that just keeps festively giving. Merry Christmas.
Merry Christmas all, I appreciate every single person who reads this. Thanks for sticking with my intermittent idea of ‘fortnightly newsletters’, and I’ll be back in the new year with more of the same!
Toodles!
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Who am I anyway?
I'm Lindsay. Bit of a dickhead, freelance writer for money, author of And Other Idiots and other internet shite for kicks. This newsletter will be a short story of some idiotic exploits from quite close to home, for no other reason than to make you smile every two weeks. Exactly how much shit can one man buy on Ebay? I intend to find out.
Find me on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook too if that’s your bag. Made you laugh? I don’t get paid to write this, but you can show your appreciation and buy me a coffee. Or commission me to write something with less swearing for your business? I’m nothing if not versatile. Are you a literary agent? I’m working on a book along these lines too - can I send you my proposal? Hit reply.
Merry Crimbles!
Thank you Lindsay, always a good read. Have a great Christmas.