I am the whitest person I know.
By that I do not mean I like to bust out ill-advised raps, achieving the deft hip-hop trick of rhyming ‘time’ with ‘time’ whilst grabbing an alarming amount of crotch real estate in public places. No, I am referring to my skin colour.
Many have tried to best me. Many have failed. “That’s not white,” they sneer. “I’m as pale as you are.” One lift of my t-shirt later and it’s “Holy CRAP it gets whiter!?!” usually followed by a magnificently witty quip such as “You should call Dulux, I don’t think they’ve discovered that shade yet” (actually I lie, I made that one up. The comments are usually more along the dizzying intellectual heights of puffing out their chin with their tongue and grunting “Urgh! White fuck!” I really should stop hanging out with my Mum so much).
At the beach, or municipal swimming hole, I am very much out of place. The rank outsider. “That guy”. Among the sea of tanned and seared flesh crackling away like a morning piece of bacon in the pan, I stand out like a blind kid’s copy of Where’s Wally? (note to self: invent Braille version of Where’s Wally?). In some areas, I am banned from removing my t-shirt for fear of snow blindness, the sun rays jack-knifing violently from my porcelain frame into the soft vulnerable eyes of unsuspecting beach-goers (“Ahhhhh! El Blanco Diablo!” they shout in Spain). In fact, I’m SO white… aaaaaahh you get the idea.
Tanning is an impossible notion. Whereas the normal human cycle of sun-searing goes “pale… pink/red… brown… lighter brown… pale”, mine is more along the lines of “pale… ARGH! My FUCKING skin! It’s like a cat’s pissed ACID on it! Sweet merciful Jesus, what’s happening?!?... peeling… pale”. Not quite as much fun, I can assure you. There’s a point in the highly enviable “peeling” stage that if you put me in one of those containment bubbles, I’d resemble a human snowglobe.
I had an ill-advised attempt at a tan once, when I was 18, and was about to go to Gran Canaria as part of England’s version of Schoolies. Keen to show off my newly sculpted bod, I thought a seven hour session in the sun, with my skin type, would beat down the path to the bronzed Adonis look I had envisioned. A little burn, and I’d be sweet. No pain, no gain.
Whooooooooooooa mama. For a week I couldn’t walk properly. Lying down was agony. Showers were a near impossibility; instead I bathed in after-sun lotion. Huge blisters erupted, camped for a few days, and promptly burst on my shoulders and legs. In another bout of youthful genius, I tried to rub after-sun lotion on the exposed skin. My subsequent screams could be heard three towns over.
So next time you see that super pale guy at the beach, don’t mock them. They’ve had it tough enough already. Simply go over and lovingly pat them on the shoulder. But not too hard. It stings, man.
