I love beaches!

Don’t you just love walking along a smooth sandy beach with a blistering sun frying your back and grating sand getting in between your toes? Well I do.

There is such a variety of specimens of the human race to be found, crowded between cliff and water, ripe for observation. Walking along the virgin sand between Bude and Sandy mouth a few weeks ago I had the pleasure of observing intimately the actions of an exotically tanned, alluringly toned and… oh feck it, who cares - the t1ts on that thing! The temptress of the female persuasion lay on a towel, slowly rubbing sun-tan lotion into her voluptuous bosoms. All this was noted from behind the safety of a pair of black wraparound sunglasses. Sunglasses act in the same way as the reinforced window at the zoo through which you watch the chimpanzees mount each other and chuckle as the inevitable little kid asks of his dad,
“Why’s the monkey got milk on his willy?”

Sunglasses, however, fail to stop one thing - they can’t hide six inches of bone. My little man came quickly to the full salute and I cursed myself for being a poser and wearing a wet-suit. I was forced to dive behind suitable rocky cover and slap one out to lubricate the crabs and to satisfy my excited member. RTFQ may be able to have a two-way conversation with his penis however I’m afraid mine refuses to even talk English when he’s standing to attention.

I managed to walk past the very topless beauty while keeping a straight face and trying not to stare too much. I almost cried, however, when a muscular surfer-dude appeared from an ill-concealed sh*tting-hole to claim the breasts as his prize.

Dragging myself away I passed various comedy-characters, like the fat lady with the tash who’s towel blew away to reveal, well, nothing at all, her sagging belly hid anything of interest.

The ubiquitous surfing class always provides a few spare moments with a couple of laughs as terrified youths attempt to master the waves and then hilariously end up tw*tting into each other at high-speed. The best one came on a giant roller as two wide-agape mouths screamed a long wail as they headed for the inevitable collision. The unfortunate pair discovered the time-honoured principle: there are no passing-places on a wave.

Next came the sardine-factory. Why, why, why, when there are endless miles of pure untouched sand, do people choose to huddle like penguins on one tiny pinprick of beach around the path leading to the car-park? By the amount of Burberry windbreaks present, I could only surmise the majority were chavs physically unable to walk more than 30 metres from a motor vehicle [their own or otherwise] or a vandalised bus-shelter. The rest must have been normal citizens trapped by the townie blockade.

An idler can always amuse himself at the ice-cream stand. Usually these are run by human slime who will inevitably make some pointless comment about the “wonderful weather we’ve been having.” The best response to this usually comes in the form “yes, it’s shocking isn’t it?” or to turn to the person behind you in the queue and to say, “why do vendors always make some smart-arrse comment about the bloody weather?” and then to storm off with your ice-cream. If you feel so inclined, you can often confuse the seller’s two brain cells by returning and saying, “this ice-cream is corked! - I demand a full refund or I shall contact the Food Standards Agency!” They have limited knowledge that corking is something only connoisseurs can detect, the wine bit never enters their minds. They will usually submit and hand you back the ridiculously large sum of money you previously paid them, cowed by the though of the FSA discovering they have no license to sell frozen refreshments.

No beach trip is complete without the copulating couple. Usually they attempt nothing more exotic than missionary-sex under a beach-towel but this time I was treated to the gasping, red face of a little lass being pounded up the wrong-un by some over-sized stud with long bleached dreadlocks.

I love beaches! :lol:
The beach is one of the finest places that only God could invent. The interface between rock and water; the place where we return to in the hope of being close to the element we emerged from millions of years ago. Especially enjoyable with a cold beer and one of those sun lounger things with an umbrella shade.

I like taking my kayak down onto the sands. There's no need for a wetsuit - it is bliss to fall in (if a little inconvenient) and it's much more impressive than a bodyboard. Trouble is, it requires a car and that negates the alcohol factor.
The beach is also the favourite haunt of pervets.

One always wonders what constitutes "human intelligence" and how exactly we have the upper hand over apes when you see a sunburnt, naked bloke in his middle forties with a pair of high-power binoculars straining to see glimpses of flesh of a poor young lass who tries to use an under-sized beach towel as cover to change behind... It gets even worse when said bloke starts flopping his flaccid member about with the excitement of it all. The perverts are, however, usually beaten by their own mental calibre as they will always forget the viagra. There's no such thing as an un-aided erection from the scum.

They are so naive in the arts that they completely ignore the advantage given by a good pair of sunglasses and they fail to master even the basics of cam and concealment.

(There's a really top class place to do a bit of binocular-perving on the clifftop just above Sandymouth - a little bush looking down onto thousands of nubile nymphs. They fail to cover themeselves adequately from above as it never enters their minds that danger lurks in other places than ground level...)

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