Diary of a Pool Cleaner

Because I Take Pride In My Fucking Job

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.

Friday, February 18, 2005

One Last Thought

Before I head off to the fucking awesome party to keep guard and make sure the pool stays fucking sparkling, I'd just like to say that anyone who would stoop so low as to invest in one of these is a pathetic wanker.

Automatic fucking pool cleaners. What is the fucking world coming to?

No Fear

It's fucking Friday night, so that means there's going to be a fucking party. This is Jon Bon fucking Jovi, after all. So all day, right, Jon's been fucking pacing around the fucking pool fucking muttering to himself. Finally, I say, "Jon, what's the fucking deal, man?" He says, "I'm fucking worried about this pool. It's so fucking sparkling, and I just know those fuckers are going to fuck it up. They'll throw their fucking beer cans in there, their fucking napkins and unfinished hotdog buns. Last time someone threw fucking diapers in there, man. Fucking dirty diapers. I just can't fucking stand knowing what's going to happen to the awesome sparkle."

So I tell him, "Jon, Jon, fucking relax, man. That's the whole fucking reason you brought me in. I was born to fucking clean pools, Jon. I can't fucking clean them if they never get fucking dirty. It's part of the whole fucking deal of being a pool cleaner."

He looked at me and said, "That is fucking awesome, man. As a man who takes fucking pride in his work, I fucking knew this right. You're, like, right fucking there, man." And I said, "I know!" Then he warned me to stay away from Cher tonight because she's been "acting all fucking weird" lately.

First Day

This is just a quick fucking update about my first fucking awesome day on the job. It was tough at first. I mean, this fucking pool was filled with shit you wouldn't believe - diapers, beer cans, small knick-knacks from Chinatown - you name it. Lucky for me, my special technique of starting from the shallow end was helpful in getting the job done quicker than your average pool cleaner, who will just start brushing from fucking anywhere with no clear system.

When Jon saw the pool, it could see the fucking tears welling in his eyes. "This pool is fucking sparkling," he said. "I want to swim in this fucking pool!" I cannot describe the pride and fucking satisfaction that filled me at that moment.

You try to explain your love of your job and why being the best is so important. It's hard to put into fucking words, it's hard to express...just to say...I can't come up...well...it's simply...

You know what? I'm not going to even try. I'm just going to go brush the fucking pool some more.

Gotta Be Fucking Tight

You know, some people people are always fucking asking me why the speedos have to be so fucking tight. So I tell them, "Listen, I fucking take pride in my job. If you want to get a pool so fucking sparkling that everyone just wants to fucking swim in it, everything has to be tight. The speedo, the fucking kit, the pool raft. Everything. Look, do you think fucking Bon Jovi would be fucking playing in front of millions every fucking year if they weren't tight every fucking night? Do you think Jon would be the fucking brilliant writer he is if his fucking lines weren't so fucking tight? That's another fucking reason I only use titanium alloy in my kit. Because it's the tightest fucking alloy there is, bitch!"

Ok, back to the pool. Jon might be having some friends over today, and I know he'll want to show off his fucking weird diving trick, so that raft needs to be fucking tight, man.

He is a legend. A star.

A lot of people have been asking me already "so, what's it like working for a fucking legend like Jon Bon Jovi?" I just tell them "you know, he's just a regular fucking guy, like you or me, except that he was fucking born to sing." Me, I was born to make water really fucking clean. It's great to have a boss that shares the same kind of commitment and conviction towards his fucking work. It makes us all that much fucking closer in our understanding one another's passions. People want to know what it's like being so fucking privvy to the more intimate details of somebody as famous as Jon? I just keep fucking telling them that I'm here to do a job and that is what fucking comes first. Anything else that might be of personal benefit is just fucking cake.

Sorry. I must be off. The dryer's just buzzed, which means my speedos should be shrunk to their appropriate size. There's a lot of work to be done on that fucking pool, what with the diapers floating in it and everything.

The Kit

While I've got a fucking second, let me tell you about some of my fucking awesome kit. You need the fucking best if you're going to make any pool fucking sparkle, let alone fucking Jon Bon Jovi's pool. When Jon said he needed to fucking fly me over to clean his fucking pool, I told him, "Jon, that's awesome, but I have to bring my fucking kit too." And he said, "Fucking bring it, then!"

My scrubber is made with this fucking titanium alloy. You just can't fucking get this shit in the States. Why titanium alloy? Because it's the fucking best! And if you're going to make that fucking pool so sparkling that people will have no choice but to fucking swim in it. I take pride in what I fucking do. You need to fucking use the best if you're going to do the best fucking job you can.


I've only just flown over yesterday on the fucking Concorde and, despite my jetlag, managed to enjoy the awesome fucking party that Jon threw for me upon my arrival. I explained to him that I couldn't possibly fucking enjoy the fucking festivities until I knew that my pool cleaning kit was in a secure place. I mean, you just can't get some of that shit over here.

Cher was at the party; she began to enquire about my services almost right fucking away. I was just like "Cher, Cher, let me relax a little. I'm fucking jetlagged already." I suspect she might be some kind of fucking philistine who really doesn't appreciate the time and effort it really fucking takes to keep one pool as fucking sparkling awesome as every pool should be. I might have harmed her feelings. What can I say? When you're doing what you're born to do and strive to be the fucking best, sometimes people get hurt.

I was having a hard time sleeping due to the time difference, so when I woke in the early hours before fucking anyone else, I immediately set about the job I was hired to do. Jon wanted to know why I'd started so soon after arriving. I can't believe I had to explain it to him. After all, it's what he brought me here to do. He seemed surprised. "That's fucking awesome!" he says. What can I say? I take pride in my fucking job.