Oh, I do hate to be beside the seaside

‘Let’s all go to the beach’, friends and family jubilantly cry at the first hint of summer. ‘Fuck off’, I less-than-jubilantly reply.

Well, at least that’s what I say in my mind. But to appear normal, I swallow it in and reluctantly pitch in to the agonising sensory waterfront terror that awaits.

But it’s nice to be beside the seaside, right? Wrong. It’s a theatre of misery, with sand as public enemy number one. Sand is glorified grit, working its way insidiously into every orifice and anything it comes into contact with. Try as hard as you like to stop it, but it will get on you, sticking to your epidermis like napalmed shrapnel.

Pebble and shingle beaches are no better, with their stony edges pressing painfully into delicate feet and bottoms. And people willingly choose to relax on this surface! They even take time off work for it, some laying on it for hours at a time. What kind of madness is this? Even with a towel separating me from the surface, I’m reminded of those ancient suffering gurus, prostrate on a bed of nails in pursuit of a meditative state.

And then there’s the suncream; a vile viscous substance that has to be liberally smeared across every square inch of exposed flesh. It’s even worse, when if like me, you’re hairier than average. For the uninitiated, it’s like massaging sticky custard into a shag-pile carpet.

So that’s the corporal torment covered. What about the sights and sounds of the seashore? Unless you’re lucky to live in the likes of Western Australia, beaches are loud and lurid places. An ever-decreasing stretch of land is rammed with jostling, half-naked individuals, addled with alcohol, sunstroke or both, screaming requests for drinks, sun lotion or towels to friends only a few feet away.

Have I mentioned the sun bothers me? I value our nearest star’s life-sustaining properties, of course. But why actively seek its rays to sauté your skin? Surely summer’s the time to shelter from this flaming, hydrogen-fuelled orb.

The beach is fraught with other issues. I hate being awash with sweat and salty sea spray. I fear frisbees flying at my head and balls bouncing into my face. I expect a screaming child to land in my lap at any moment. Most of all, I’m troubled by the constant waves of chatter breaking against my ears like the sea on the beleaguered coastline before me.

‘Have an ice cream, and chill out’, some idiot says. How can I relax and eat with all of this going on? And ice cream?! Am I entering a new tier of tactile torture: subjugation by dairy adhesive?

I admit, the sound of the lapping ocean is lovely. If only I could single out this sound from the melee around me. But try as I might, I can’t. Let’s come back in the dead of night, or better yet winter, when there’s no sun to escape, no sand sticking to toes and no rowdy crowds to flee from. No? OK then, but just a heads up for next summer, I’d rather not go to the beach.