Kayaking in the Liverpool-Leeds canal is perhaps the most random thing I’ve done this month. Me and three (male) friends sailing in our pointy, floating capsules and making the most of what seems to be the only bit of sunshine England will receive all year. I highlight the fact we are all males because it’s very important…
When four humans with penises get together, they inevitably act like four penises – especially if they have boats! So, not one of us had a saftey helmet and not one of us could navigate forwards without spinning around like a sycamore seed. Bear in mind we had to evade barges driven by people using the canal for its conventional function.
So, with two of us in the water at a time you would think the best thing to do would be have race. However, because of our lack of kayak training (by ‘lack of’ I mean we, collectively, have more experience in space flight), a race would be pointless due to our sycamore seed syndrome mentioned earlier.
Any man reading this already knows what the alternative activity turned out to be – bashing each other with the oars. Yet, this was equally as difficult to master and surprisingly exhausting. Just as I give up swinging, my opponenent caught me with the corner of his paddle, right in the middle of my forehead.
It’s hard to explain the feeling – it was kind of like a horse had sticky taped a bumblebee to it’s hoof and kicked the sting into my fod. When we got back to the cars I checked it out in the mirror. It was essentially a third nipple.
The wound somehow developed into a zit and accompanied me for the rest of the week. To put it’s size into perspective – I had to pay for three tickets when me and my girlfriend (yes, my girlfriend stayed with me despite the nubin), went to the cinema.
Now that it’s gone I feel like I’ve lost an eye or something. The moral of the story is take up a hobby that you’re fully capable of doing and preferably in a suitable environment i.e. don’t play aqua-gladiators in one of the busiest canals in the country.