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JEREMY CLARKSON - YOU'RE DEAD MEAT
LOUISE TREWAVAS
LOOK BELOW THE SURFACE. FROGS ARE FUNNY. Penguins are comical. Divers can be absolutely hysterical.
We're all trying to achieve that difficult task of existing competently both in and out of the water. It's a bit like expecting a porky middle-aged man to be taken seriously while dressed in a giant baby outfit: we have an image mismatch problem.
Human beings are designed to breathe air and walk around on land, and many of us are incapable of doing that with any degree of elegance. Strap a load of scuba gear onto us and we are simply a lost cause, a comedy act, and a bit of a disaster waiting to happen.
So perhaps it shouldn't come as too much of a surprise that the most dangerous place for a diver to be is on the surface.
John is very well-equipped. His buddy check drags on as he lovingly explains every shred of kit to his partner. As he describes the intricacies of his line-cutter, she is gagging to get in the water. Or strangle him.
There is a palpable feeling of relief when the pair eventually flip over the side of the boat - spoiled only by the squealing of rope twisting against rubber. John's plastic SMB reel is caught and briefly suspends his entire weight before splintering into shrapnel. Everybody ducks.
Another day, I watch as Rob and Pete listen to instructions from the boat-handler: "It's important that you both roll in backwards at the same time, so I'm going to count you down. Ready? Three, two, one, GO!"
Pete rolls back into the water. Rob pauses, stares blankly at the boat-handler and then, as the whole RIB unites in a chorus of "Noooo!", launches himself backwards. Clang!
We nearly capsize as everybody peers over the tubes, expecting the worst. Pete is spinning repeatedly through 360¡, maintaining a fixed OK signal. The boat-handler is scribbling on his slate: "Note to Rob: establishing whether your fellow-diver is concussed should not become part of your standard buddy check."
Being hit by a diver on the surface isn't great, but being hit by a boat is far worse. My old dive club introduced a very sensible rule that divers must either come up the shot, deploy an SMB or - if you couldn't be trusted to do that - wear one of the club's high-visibility pink hoods.
These monstrosities were designed to be pulled over your existing hood, and the original lurid colour quickly faded to a fleshy tone. It looked like a foreskin. Everybody therefore carried an SMB. because nobody wanted to wear the hood and look like a dickhead.
Which brings me neatly to Jeremy Clarkson.
TV presenter and occasional scuba-diver Clarkson has made a career out of being puerile and irritating - forgetting that we already have an army of eight-year-old boys who perform that role admirably.
His recent gem in the Sunday Times, entitled Sharks - You're Dead Meat - concludes that killing all sharks would make the world a better place. Not just because sharks are ugly and eat people, but because it would seriously annoy all those beardy, vegetarian, conservationist types. So far, so yawningly predictable.
Clarkson seems to spend most of his time trying to get cars to go as fast as possible, injecting a feeling of risk and danger into the otherwise safe activity of driving. Many divers like the thrill of diving with sharks for exactly the same reason. That feeling of risk is exciting.
But whereas Clarkson can always put his foot on the brake, nobody is in control of the shark. Too scary for you, Jeremy?
John may have lost his reel, but poor old Jeremy appears to have lost his balls. For some reason, the image of a porky, middle-aged man dressed as a baby springs to mind.
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