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Come Hell or High Water.


Consecrated ground has the same effect on evil spirits as when I cross the threshold of a Sports Direct. 

(Bang goes the chance to do an advert for them; Sports Direct, not graveyards.)

I visited the Stevenage branch of the sportswear giant (of giant mug-producing fame) this afternoon, to buy a pair of swimming shorts for next week’s trip to Center Parcs. I've seldom felt less comfortable than on entering the premises. It didn't help that a guy I went to school with works there (who compared me to Ned Flanders, on a memorable and still niggling occasion). I had visions of him spotting me across the shop floor and repeating his hilarious Simpsons-based assertion at the top of his voice while the rest of Sports Direct laughed. I have a vivid and paranoid imagination. 

Everything about the situation screamed “awkwardness”. I was completely out of my depth (*swimming pun*). I wandered around the ground floor a few times, having written the first floor off on entry, due to the massive sign at the top of the stairs that said Football Equipment, or something of that ilk. This was my first mistake; what better place to hide the swimwear than amongst the football kits? Even browsing the shorts made me feel uncomfortable. I haven't swum in years. The last time I got into a swimming pool was in 2011, to film a sketch for Doggett & Ephgrave's Comedy Shorts, and on that occasion I was dressed from top to toe in camouflage gear; lidos aren’t my natural habitat.

Once I'd found the right section, I didn't hang about. I chose a pair that looked vaguely suitable and rushed to the nearest till. Thankfully, my school 'friend' wasn’t about. The girl who served me offered me a bag for life, which was ironic as she was dead behind the eyes. Just be thankful I didn't buy trunks.
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