Diary of a Pool Cleaner

Because I Take Pride In My Fucking Job

Monday, April 25, 2005

The Hedges/The Ninth Pool

Gil arrived saying he was fucking fit and ready to fucking go. I asked if he need to tighten up his fucking kit any -- you know, give his fucking speedos a spin in the fucking dryer -- but he said he fucking got primed on the plane. He was fucking *there*, so it was time to fucking go. There's a fucking pool to be cleaned. Pride fucking demands it be done sooner.

Jon sat on his fucking balcony and fucking sang us out as we went. It was a bit creepy to go out to "Livin' On A Prayer", amongst others, but we fucking knew if this took us out, at least it would be in a fucking "Blaze of Glory". We were fucking ready. Besides, Jon sounded fucking brilliant.

Gil led the fucking way as he had it all fucking mapped out, though still adding some fucking notes with his pen. "Check it out! Fucking titanium alloy nibs! Bought it a the fucking airport. They said it was the same ones they use on the fucking space shuttle.

"Ok, there are nine fucking sections to Cher's pool. We'll work from the fucking outside in, starting with pool nine and working to the first fucking pool."

We got to the edge of Cher's fucking property, kits in hands, speedos fucking gripping tight. Before us were a set of dense fucking hedges from which came all sorts of fucking animalistic noises. "I fucking hope that isn't one of Cher's fucking parties..."

"First, " Gil said, "we have to crawl through these fucking hedges that Cher had put up to keep the fucking public from fucking peeking at her pool. There are some fucking semi-wild beasts in there -- fucking former exotic pets she got fucking bored with -- but if we stay straight and fucking hurry, we'll make it fine.

"After that is the first fucking section. It shouldn't be too bad. This is where the fucking stragglers with nowhere else to really fucking go hang out. Decent enough blokes, but they've never heard of Bon Jovi."

"How the fuck can have never heard of fucking Bon Jovi?!?" I exclaimed.

"Not so fucking loud! There's a fucking albino ape out here who will rip you the fuck up!"

"Sorry, sorry. But how can someone not know the fucking brilliance of fucking Jon Bon Jovi?"

"It happens, man. Some people just never got the fucking chance before it was too fucking late."

Shaking my fucking head, I tried to calm myself. I needed to be fucking *there* if we were to fucking survive this. After just a short fucking time, we arrived to the first section, the ninth pool. Gil was right. It wasn't fucking bad at all. A few empty cans of Busch Lite, a few fucking clumps of hair. There was a fucking toupee stuck in the fucking filter, but I'd seen far worse at The Dorchester let alone after one of Jon's fucking parties. Someone fucking left a bunch of CDs over on the side. Gil was right, no Bon Jovi to be found. Some Winger, Stryper(!) and fucking Extreme, but not even "Slippery When Wet". It was a little depressing, really.

In no time at all we had that section fucking sparkling, packed up our kits and headed out to the eighth pool. I was feeling pretty fucking good, but Gil warned, "Don't fucking lose focus. There is far fucking worse ahead." And we went on.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005


Because there's no fucking Concorde, it's taking Gil a fucking sight longer than we fucking expected to get out here. At least it's fucking giving him some time to do some fucking research on Cher's pool.

Which fucking worked out too because it gave me time to make sure my fucking kit was fucking tight. Jon bought this new fucking dryer with a fucking titanium alloy drum. It gets really fucking hot -- fucking hotter than any fucking aluminium drum can fucking get -- which makes fucking sure my fucking speedos are tight. It's like me and the fucking speedos are fucking one, man.

It also gave me some fucking time to perfect my fucking technique. To get the fucking friction right I have to making sure I fucking move the fucking sweeper like the arm on the fucking space shuttle. I fucking worked on the pool until it fucking sparkled like never before. Hours of work and I was fucking *there*, man. Jon came down and said, "This fucking pool! Look at that fucking water!"

"I know," I said.

"I've got to fucking swim in this. I...I have to swim in this fucking pool right fucking now!" So he dove in without looking. Lucky for him, his raft was already fucking inflated. "I fucking knew it'd be ready, man. You were fucking born to clean pools so there was no fucking way you'd miss any fucking details. That's fucking pride, man. That's fucking awesome."

Pride. Yeah, I'm fucking ready for Cher's pool, bitch.

Friday, March 18, 2005

I'm Fucking In

Yeah, I know I fucking said I was done cleaning other people's fucking pools, but there's one out there that's fucking haunting me, man. Fucking haunting me! I think you know which fucking pool I'm talking about, too. That's right, it's fucking Cher's pool.

Her pool is fucking legendary. Fucking nine sections, covers half a fucking acre. Cher claims to fucking clean it herself, but you only have to see her fucking pretend to eat once to know she's not a clean fucking person. That pool has to be a fucking sight, man. I can't fucking stand knowing it's out there all fucking soiled up. I was born to fucking clean pools; I can't let one fucking go from fucking fear.

When I first told Jon about it he fucking freaked. "You can't fucking go there, man!" But I told him, "Jon, what if someone needed a fucking brilliant song written and they were fucking, I don't know..they fucking trying to do it themselves by imagining they were fucking Barry Manilow or something. Could you just let that fucking happen?"

"Fuck no!" he said. "I understand, man. We take fucking pride in what we were born to do. But you can't fucking go there alone. Let me fucking help."

"Jon, Jon. You were born to write fucking brilliant songs, not clean fucking pools. You'd never fucking make it. We can't lose your fucking songs. If I go, at least I'll go doing what I was fucking born to do. It's the fucking risk all us pool cleaners take. We never know when someone will turn on a fucking pump, or throw a fucking appliance in the fucking pool while we're cleaning. We put our fucking lives on the line every fucking time we clean. But the sparkle is fucking worth it."

"Man, you are so fucking awesome. So right fucking there. But you're still going to need some fucking help."

"I know."

So Jon volunteered to fly one of my mates and a fucking right good pool cleaner himself, Gil, in from London. Unfortunately without the fucking Concorde it's fucking going to be a bit.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Pool Cleaner, Not Status Symbol

Right, I've been fucking busy, man. After enduring all the fucking begging, I finally broke down and fucking agreed to clean the fucking pools of some of Jon's friends. But only those who were using those fucking digusting automated pool cleaners. I may be the fucking best, man, but I'm not going to take another pool cleaner's fucking job out from under him.

It soon became rather fucking clear that most of these guys had no fucking interest in a clean pool, man. They just wanted to be able to say their pool was fucking cleaned by fucking Jon Bon Jovi's pool cleaner. It fucking should have been obvious, I suppose, since they used those fucking automated "cleaners". But I take pride in my fucking work, even if they don't. So I made sure those pools fucking sparkled before I left. Maybe, I dunno, maybe one of them will have a fucking conversion when they see it.

But I don't think I'll fucking be going back, man. What Jon and me have here is some sort of fucking symbiosis of pride. We fucking feed off each other's energy. I hear him write a fucking brilliant song and it makes me clean that fucking pool even harder. Just like after he swims like a fucking fish for a few hours, he says the fucking sparkle puts him right fucking there to go write another great song.

Thursday, February 24, 2005


I apologise for my fucking rant yesterday. Spending so much fucking time with Jon, I sometimes forget that not every celebrity is as fucking cool over clean pools as he is. Well, except perhaps fucking Cher. She has some fucking weird obsession with pools. It's fucking sick, almost.

When I first told Jon the fucking news about P Diddy's party, he was fucking furious. He offered to fucking fly me down there on his private fucking jet, but we weren't sure how we'd get by the fucking hotel security with my whole fucking kit along. You can't just fucking hide titanium alloy. It stands out. People fucking notice.

This really distressed Jon who told me, "I can't just fucking sit around, man. I need to fucking do something!" So I told him, "Jon: go write a fucking song about it. It's what you were fucking born to do." And he was all, "Fucking right! You are AWESOME!"

And me? I fucking went down to the pool and made it fucking sparkle like never before. If others are fucking callous about their fucking pools, I'll fucking make sure this one makes up for all of them. I take fucking pride in my work.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

What Was P. Diddy THINKING?!?!?

Being the Renaissance man that I am, I like to stay abreast of current events, you know, read the fucking papers and shit like that. I was, however, most distressed to read this news:

Rap star P Diddy has angered animal rights activists after penguins were used as a party piece at an event he was hosting in the US.

The animals were placed on a floating glass platform in a swimming pool at a hotel in South Beach, Florida.

Never mind the rights of the animals, what kind of a demented, mentally fucking ill person would risk getting a perfectly sparking fucking pool dirty with penguin shit? The important question here is what about the pool cleaner? Who's looking out for his rights?

(Link stolen from this bloke who calls himself "Farm Accident Digest," though his site seems to lack as of yet a single digest of any solitary farm accident.)

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Back At It

Right. So I try to fucking recharge by looking through this month's Kit magazine, but they're fucking going off again about the fucking wonders of the lastest aluminium alloy gear. Please, aluminium fucking alloy? That's a fucking pussy alloy! How can you get the friction you need to get all the shit off the fucking bottom of the pool? This shit is probably used by those fucking "cleaners" who leave the fucking deep end all shitty figuring no one will fucking see it anyway. I'm still pissed about it, so you can see that just made things fucking worse.

Jon lets me use some of the equipment in his fucking basement like the weight bench and the fucking tanning bed, so I tried to calm down by working on my fucking tan when I heard something. Jon was working on a new fucking song, and it was fucking tight! That's when I fucking knew there was only one thing that was going to make me feel better: cleaning that fucking pool. I was born to clean fucking pools just like Jon was born to be a brilliant singer. We take fucking pride in a job well done, and right now there's a fucking job that I fucking left undone.

See, it's like those fucking tossers at Kit. They used to put out the best fucking pool cleaning magazine on the whole fucking planet, but now they have their fucking heads so far up the fucking aluminium alloy industry's arse it probably hasn't shat for fucking years. That's what fucking happens when you stop taking pride in your fucking work. Jon reminded me tonight again what that fucking means.

If you'll excuse me, I have a fucking pool to clean. That filth hasn't got a fucking chance. This fucking pool is going to fucking sparkle so much, it'll even clean the fucking image of what Cher did on the fucking diving board out of your mind.

Fucking Animals

Now that the festivites have come and gone, I have to say that I now understand what Jon was worried about. Despite my eager-most attention, his mates and other party attendees managed to completely fucking trash the pool I'd worked so hard to get sparkling in the first place. I mean, you wouldn't fucking believe the kind of shit these people put in that pool. There were beer cans, under-pants, used condoms (!), a copy of Atlantic Monthly, two Barbie dolls, 15 or so guitar picks, a long piece of string (nobody's figured out how Cher made it home in the nude) and an un-opened juice box (mixed fruit punch, in case you're curious). And that's not even counting the other various items of fucking clothing and other hair accessories. It's taken me half the fucking day just to ladel out this fucking shit, let alone break out the kit (titanium alloy, like the kind of stuff they use on the space shuttle, you know) and start scrubbing away the residue.

What is this fucking world coming to, when people treat a perfectly clean, sparkling pool like this? This is the sort of thing that separates us from the fucking animals, after all. We're not monkeys, like those kind that fling their shit all over the place. We're fucking upright, intelligent beings who should have a better appreciation of the basic human needs, like really clean water to fucking swim in.

This has just left me so depressed. The burden of fucking realising there are people out there who don't share my passion...who will never understand...who just...I just can't...

Excuse me. I need to spend a little time alone with myself.