The Speedo?

The Speedo. Item of international mockery*1 and the nemesis of small penised men. Worn by well-endowed aging celebs a plenty (Peter Stringfellow, Paul Daniels, Mikhail Gorbachev), but what’s the story behind the mysteriously appealing strip of nylon? During a 170,357kb email thread, we found out. First to the origin of the Speedo; invented by a Scot named Alexander MacRae, who in an (assumed) unrelated incident, married his wife at the unusual location of a train station. I’ll give you a moment to overcome your surprise that the internationally renowned one-piece was presumably first tested in an icy loch by a man whose nation (one would imagine) has an Olympic swimming trophy cupboard emptier than the Bible is of scientifically plausible content*2. Ah, but perhaps swimming glory is the motivation! We took a closer look at the Speedo to see if this was true. On first glance, one immediately acknowledges the pleasing aesthetics of the swimming garment, but after further discussion, the aerodynamic advantages of the item also come to light; advantages which have undeniably helped the Scots and the rest of the world break historical swimming records. But back to the beginning, and the almost unimaginable pre-Speedo era of naked swimming and we look to see what Mr MacRae thought the Speedo could bring to the world; to quote our Scotch genius, ‘Aye, bonny speed’*3. But have you ever stopped and asked yourself– how much drag can a willy really have? This is a subject sadly neglected by the scientific research community, but our reporter supposed that it was ‘crucial tenths of a second to professionals’. Guess work doesn’t fly unless there’s no other option here at (enter publication name), but we pondered this idea and questioned why Scots in particular suffered this drag. Perhaps Scottish men had massive wotsits and prior to the Speedo invention, swimming at internationally recognised speed was a problem for them? Having no Scots among us, no national stereotypes to go on and no Scottish friends close enough to ask about the size of their hoo-haas, we abandoned this line of enquiry. Whilst we fear this question may never be answered, Speedo themselves supplied us with at least some science to explain the benefits of their new, critically-acclaimed LZR (pronounced laser*4) Speedo series, which has a mouth-watering 5% less drag than the company’s 2007 release. Put in layman’s terms, this can reduce racing times by 1.9-2.2% and is officially endorsed by Olympic administrators FINA, with 94% of swimming medals in 2008 won by competitors wearing the suit. But back to our entrepreneurial Scot and a twist to this already inspiring story; it seems he emigrated (sans wife) to Australia in 1912, two years before he even invented the Speedo! Ah, so now we see the light at end of the investigative tunnel. One must assume that on reaching those golden beaches and azure waters, our dear friend Alexander came to feel inadequate in the water alongside the swimming-pool Trojans that Australians are known to be*5. Taunted by Bruce’s easy acceleration in the pool, humiliated by Sheila’s giggles as he was lapped yet again by the natives, a light bulb came on in the mind of our modern day Braveheart. And so like democracy and gunpowder before it, a new life-changing genius entered the world. As slogan ‘Speed on in your Speedos’ and brand name tell us, for speed, yes. But perhaps we can also assume, as his nickname would suggest, old Alexander ‘big one’ MacRae also had a large whaddyamacallit and the tight style of the Speedo, which was considered inappropriate by the prudish, was a way of reclaiming his dignity on the beach whilst standing amongst the possibly length-challenged Australian swimmers. Today, almost 100 years since it was invented, Des O’Connor and the rest of the world continue to embrace what is now regarded as the epitome of sports equipment perfection. With phenomenal sales each day, hundreds of ranges available on the shelves of all good retailers and the Speedo recognised as the only brand worth wearing in the Olympics, Mr MacRae can rest happily in his grave*6, knowing that in his lifetime, he changed the world for the better.

*1 Ridiculed by Spaniard Nicolás Obregón and African Nicole Pearson (as all humans originated in Africa), Alexandra Johnston (nationality confidential under Interpol and CIA command), Middle Eastern Anglo-Caucasian Joe Harvey (as Europeans all came from the Middle East) and Sexist Adam Larter (well, of self-assigned nation of ‘Sexy’, sexist seemed the most usable informal term) alike.
*2 On further research you will see that Scottish men have actually won 8 medals in swimming in the past 50 years, the last being in 1996. We’re still looking for plausible content in the Bible.
*3 A completely fabricated quote, loosely utilising the vocabulary of Scottish character ‘Jim McLaren’ in 1970s TV series Porridge.
*4 Lazer to our American friends.
*5 Australian men have won 26 medals in swimming in the last three Olympic games alone.
*6 We assume burial, though he may have been cremated and scattered, or cremated and turned into a pair of Speedos; research continues.

Oh, what a beautiful thing!

I never feel more at ease than I do sitting in a coffee shop, drinking coffee and watching the world go by. The coffee shop itself is not important, nor the location, so long as it has a comforting quietness and is only mildly occupied. Nothing is worse than a bustling and noisy environment where my senses are constantly being diverted and gnawed on by conversations around me and intrusive sounds. I loathe people knocking into me or speaking loudly next to me. It makes me feel so helpless, the way they can inflict themselves on me and enter themselves into my life without my say so. Why should I be aware of a person I did not choose to be aware of! I try to vary my coffee houses in order to maintain that feeling of calm mixed with that excitement I feel as my eyes devour new scenery and new people. Once I’d seen things, the excitement was gone, and only by moving on to a new place or seeing a new wave of people could I continue enjoying the experience, and indeed life itself. The coffee is important. I could never sit in a coffee house and drink tea or juice. There’s a sophistication in coffee for me, in the seductive scent, and as I drink it and absorb the flavour I feel so in touch with a different world of people: like-minded people, philosophers, my literary heroes, the thinkers and the observers who in my imagination once spent time themselves sitting in a coffee shop, alone, conjuring ideas to capture on paper at a later time. I sip my coffee and my mind shoots from my body, up into the sky with a whoosh. The air streams past me; cool against the back of my neck, overwhleming my body and I experience that sickening but exhilarating rollercoaster stomach drop. Far up into the atmosphere I go until I have a view of the entire world. It’s bright and it’s sunny and it’s glorious, and I’m suspended for a moment, arms outstretched and eyes closed, given time to appreciate the beautiful glow of the earth, the sparkling lights reflecting off of the clouds and the tingle of the air against my skin. Then with a whoosh my mind is pulled back down to earth, to another place, another country and another person who is at that exact moment doing the same thing I am. There they are; sipping coffee, gazing out onto the street, looking at the immaterial mortals passing by on the street and the coffee drinkers at the surrounding tables. A particular person catches their eye, through their voice, their movements or their expressions; the room retreats and they hone their attention fully on this person. Their mind balloons, a cavernous amount of space grows behind their eyes and with a flash all that empty space becomes saturated with images and words of the character and memories of the person in front of them. More and more elaborate the story becomes, memories created and layered on top of one another; their youth, their love life, their hopes and dreams all established within seconds. They never speak to this person; that would ruin everything. The experience and joy in this moment relies entirely on the fact that for those few seconds, they are in absolute control of their subject, knowing everything about them and absorbing all of their experiences into their own. Even if this person decides to get up and leave, in their mind they quickly establish their reason for leaving and the control is maintained. Sometimes another person captures their attention, interrupting this explosion of imagination and story-building, and with a flash of neurones they’re off! Tumbling down a new alleyway they grasp at passing thoughts and invoke an entirely new character. Oh, isn’t the imagination infinite!

And yet sometimes no one seizes their attention, nothing inspires, no one intrigues. There’s no sorrow in this; their mind instead focuses on their own life; their own hopes and dreams, their own tragedies, their own experiences. And when their own life holds no attraction, sometimes their mind thinks of nothing; ah, what a beautiful thing to think of nothing! For a mind that is so constantly working, relentlessly exploring every avenue that can possibly be explored, clawing every dark thought out of the shadows, scrutinising every inch of the road in front of them, working at such a speed that it leaves the mind and body exhausted, that moment of bliss where not a single thought is held in the mind is a salvation.

I have but a moment to revel in the glory of knowing this mind, so completely compatible with my own before I’m off again, rocketing up in the air then darting back down to a different coffee shop in a different part of the world. Again and again this happens, circulating all of the globe and all its peoples before my mind whooshes back to the heavens for a final time and then back into my body with a jolt. It has taken a matter of seconds, and I feel so in tune with humanity that all despair has been expelled from my being and a smile lights up my face. I feel like laughing at the pure joy and exhilaration I feel at that moment.

Seconds pass and I think of nothing else. Gradually, I become aware of my surroundings, the hiss of the coffee machine, the chatter of customers and the clatter of china. I glance around and my mind begins to form its own characters for those around me. Those sitting on their own hold little interest. To feel in tune with a like-minded person on the other side of the world is one thing, but I cannot bear those in the same room, negating my very existence as an individual by their presence. This is my domain, and I will be the sole observer of its activity. But those sitting with friends or colleagues are the really intriguing characters; to look at an attentive listener, as they react to the words being spoken to them I find truly fascinating. Is that expression sincere? Is that laughter one of pure joy or did it contain a hollow ring? And to see the speaker, revelling in those precious moments where they are the centre of attention and possess the knowledge that at that moment they are tattooing a piece of themselves on the world, laying down words or phrases that can never be erased. How heady that must feel, knowing that despite anything that may happen from that moment forth, people once heard you and validated your presence! Whilst some concede in mid-flow to the words of their companions, those with the confidence to march on in their speech uninterrupted stir such feeling inside me. Oh, the jealousy I feel, for all the speakers with their confidence and self-belief, it twists at my body and in my gut even as my mind assures me that they can not possibly be truly happy, and if they are happy then they are surely ignorant! Ignorance is bliss, but ignorance is embarrassing. So sure in their words now, but they will at some point find they are mistaken and if fairness prevails in this world then the shame will come crashing down.

And the listeners, oh it’s all certainly an act. Surely no person can listen to another and truly feel for them in any way other than how the words affect themselves? Empathy and joy can only be given and felt if you imagine yourself with the burden or pleasure of your friends’ situations. There’s no real pity or elation, as it is always tainted by a twinge of happiness or jealousy that you yourself have not experienced those feelings. But we must pretend to feel these things, both empathy and joy. The jealousy I feel for those assured speakers is far outweighed by the anger if someone does not pretend to understand or pretend to find the speaker’s life interesting and words amusing. Always smile warmly, always nod thoughtfully and always laugh. How dare people not even make a show of pretence, when day in and day out I maintain that façade in order to keep my companions satisfied! And as the days wear on, I understand less, I find subjects less interesting and I find people less amusing, yet the pretence grows stronger! I martyr myself for the sake of peace and the self-esteem of others. What an unrecognised hero I am. Though, were I to think on it, this self-sacrifice would reveal itself to be no such selfless act, being committed purely in order to maintain my own sanity. A selfish martyrdom. And all good acts must be the same; to be good is to be selfish! But an interruption; before the despair consumes me I feel the rush of the breeze as the door opens. A group of foreign students tumble in, the volume of their laughter and conversation disrupting my thoughts. The calm of the coffee shop is destroyed, and I must be on my way. A temporary numbness overcomes my body and dissolves the despairing thoughts. I gather my things, and then I’m off, to a new adventure or an old one.

Overheard - 16.55ish, 5th February 2010, My office Queen Victoria Street (EC4V)

'I took the ears and the cheeks off. '

'You should dry them out.'

'Someone criticised me for not eating the nose or the lips. What part do you make pork pies with?’

‘I don’t know…’

‘I'm making faggots and pate with it. Still got the tail-‘

‘You could make a tail soup?’

‘Yeah we could. We've got the trotters, tail... My wife is Spanish and might make some Spanish dish with those.'