9th Jan - When will mine look like that?

The men's changing room can prove a daunting HQ. Throughout a male's life, he'll experience a variety of different emotions in said environment. My own anxieties in this chlorine-stenched setting, were birthed through weekly school trips to our local leisure centre for swimming lessons. Although I held a somewhat superior intellectual level to the other children around me on an academic level, the class' star-pupil was - and still is - a somewhat clumsy oaf with very little hand-eye coordination. This meant that whilst I was able to scoff at those yet to master their Nine Times Table, they were able to return the favour when it came to my inability to succinctly master my shirt buttons, or tie my shoe-laces. On the latter, I was regularly assisted by Mr. Stewart, a voluntary helper, and also Grandfather of my fellow 6-year old classmate genius, Deborah O'Brien, who - unsurprisingly - ended up gaining a first at Cambridge 15 years later.

As I grew a little older, my changing room shame transformed - sticking with the foot-theme - from laces to verrucas. By this point, my reputation as a water-baby was cemented and I'd spend most Sundays  swimming length after length at an indoor pool in Newbury as my father would watch on from the grandstand seats, burrowing his way through a packet of Munchies stored in the pocket of his infamous leather jacket. The downside of such frequent trips to the pool was that I'd now gained almost frog-like soles, scaly with verrucas as they filled the base of my entire foot. Through consultation with my GP, we tried numerous remedies including Bazuka gel, and eventually, a frozen canister of liquid nitrogen, administered by the nurse to burn them off. But until then, I was forced to wear verruca socks, to limit the spread of the infection to my fellow students. At the age of 10, bobbing around in front of your peers with two giant white rubber condom-esque flippers on your tootsies is always going to draw attention, and consequently, ridicule. (Though I eventually enacted my revenge, drowning Robert Osborne under a giant inflatable until he panicked so much that a collection of bubbles rose to the surface around him and his neon-green Speedos). 

Fast-forward to my teenage years and the changing rooms in the sports hall of my secondary school were akin to a Zoo, as the delightful delinquents I was forced to refer to as classmates would smoke in the showers, smash locker-key chains or whip damp towels around unsuspecting lad's bare backs, and boot footballs and tennis balls around the room, aiming for various faces. Rumour has it, most of the teens from my generation have since ended up serving time in Her Majesty's at some point, and based on their adolescent antics (most were members of an infamous regional gang where entry into said crew was achieved by a vile initiation of bottling passers-by in the local park), I can't say I'm surprised. As a somewhat portly young adult, my own battles with weight were usually seized upon by the grunting alphas and though I was fortunate enough - unlike Lesley Thorpe, aka 'Monkey Boy' - to avoid the head-flush down the loo routine, I'd often end up bunking P.E on account of avoiding the hostile nature of said Lynx Africa-soaked arena.

These days, my own reluctance to use public forums involving (partial) nudity are enhanced by the insecurities of a deep and very obvious surgical scar running up my lower torso on account of a colon resection due to illness a few years back. Yesterday, as I observed those around me in the men's changing room of the spa, I saw the looks on faces of every insecurity I'd ever felt, and realised that my own emotions in these settings are valid, and entirely normal. I no longer felt like the 'odd one out' as I saw the two children clutching onto the hand of their young father, terrified by the enormous dong (it's always enormous) of the elderly gentleman striding around obliviously - and somewhat needlessly - butt-naked. (Seriously lad, just pop your pants on). And as his hanging marbles tickled the floor's beige tiles, the saggy nature of his worn leather-like skin was of stark contrast to the tight pecs of the Bratislava-born bodybuilder who gave up his locker so I could use it, and definitely watches himself in the mirror when he's having sex. In the corner, by the showers, a hairy Mediterranean breaking the cardinal sin of changing rooms, as he indulged in a spot of 'flossing', one leg up on the bench, the other on the floor, as his towel rapidly started to glide through his marmite motorway amid the puffy haze of a cloud formed by talcum powder. Meanwhile, the father - somewhat flustered at the thought of his children viewing further 'dad-brown' coloured pork-swords, was hastily packing up their bags before his mini Beavis & Buttheads could ask, "Daddy, when when will mine look like that?"

The men's changing room can prove a daunting HQ. But we are all as validated and entitled to feel free enough in such a setting to express ourselves with zero fear of inferiority or comparison. So, too all those reading, with the dad bods and lad bods, shy schlongs and boastful dongs, inverted nips or lady-like hips, hairy backs or shaven cracks.. No matter what... Be proud of who you are!