Metro 204

On our last afternoon in Austria, my wife and I headed to the sauna for a bit of après ski relaxation. I am never quite sure what I am meant to be getting out of this experience. You get hot and sweaty and it’s hard to breath, which I imagine is what it’s like to be buried alive. My guess is that for some people it’s a bit like having a spicy curry, more about the bravado of what you can take, rather than any actual pleasure.

I was wearing my trunks, waiting for my wife in the central-heated coffin when a woman in her fifties entered. I noticed with some alarm that she had  removed her swimming costume and was bare-ass naked. Which was rather bold. She greeted me with a cheery hello as if nudity was the most natural thing in the world and then lay down opposite me, with her bottom bits smiling up at me like an end-to-end double rainbow. I didn’t know where not to look. I would have gone red and had steam coming out of my ears, if I wasn’t in a sauna and already experiencing these cartoon symptoms.

My wife came in. How would I explain this suspicious situation?

She handled the expanse of flesh with more maturity than I could muster, accepting this as something European and sophisticated. But there’s nothing sophisticated about not sniggering like a schoolboy when presented with an unexpected noo-noo.  You could see her chuff…. I imagine.

I know I am 48 and should be able to take a stranger’s tuppence in my stride (so to speak), but I am repressed and uncomfortable enough with my own nudity so I made my excuses and left.

Yet had I known that this hotel had tiny, hot wooden room where I could sit all day and have European women parading their bottoms before me, I might have pretended I’d twisted my ankle on day one and left my wife on the slopes.

Then I noticed a sign on the wall saying that it was policy for everyone to be naked in the sauna. After all my judgment of this over-confident lady, it was I that had committed the social faux pas, by keeping my own raddled genitalia hidden.

I couldn’t understand the logic of nudity being a requirement. Sure if you want to be free and let it all flop out, then go ahead, but why was it compulsory? What’s the problem with a man wanting to hide his pathetic shriveled worm from the view of an uninterested stranger? A hypothetical man, obviously. 

It also said that under-14s weren’t allowed to go in the sauna, which meant that over 14 year olds were allowed! Europe disgusts me. And if I found this experience so scarring at nearly 50, imagine how the teenage me would have reacted to seeing his first bare lady outside the pages of a sodden and torn Fiesta magazine that he had found in Shipham Wood. He would have exploded.

I was pro-Europe until this happened, but I think now that the UK should have an immediate Brexit and try and row these islands as far away from this hot bed of liberation and contentment as possible.

And for those of you who suddenly have the urge for a sauna, I was staying at the beautiful and highly recommended Hotel Goldenberg in Lech.

Though now this news is out, I imagine the spa will be full of pasty British men with their shriveled chicken-neck winkies sweating sadly in the heat. At least I will feel at home.

The real victim of the phrase “Netflix and chill” entering common parlance is Craig David. Thanks to the new connation of “chilling”, he now has to make love with the girl he met on Monday for five days straight. Craig’s not getting any younger and he could do with a break before meeting the next girl on Monday. When’s he going to get time to write a song to tell all his mates what he’s done?