When I was small, I used to think that a coach was a large thing with four wheels which was smelly and belched out smoke, took you all over the country, cost a lot and made you sick. Since I have grown up (in body at least), I realise I was wrong about the four wheels. I know full well that it is probably a career termination move to take a swipe at coaches, but having been their victim for so many years, and with so little to show for it, I just can't resist it. First let's define our terms. A teacher is someone who takes a non-swimmer and convinces them that they can swim, whereas a coach is someone who takes a swimmer and convinces them that they can't. I am of course properly qualified to comment on coaches, having never been one. You may think this strange logic, but it is every bit as logical as the convention which seems to debar coaches from ever swimming themselves. Unfair accusation? Well, when did you last see your coach in the water? There are a few exceptions of course, like the coach I once had who had competed in 3 Olympics and even had a bronze medal to show for it - but I call that showing off. No. Mostly, coaches plead that they have no time to swim themselves, thereby avoiding ever being rumbled as non-swimmers. The magic words 'do what I say, not what I do' maintains their authority in the face of any swimmer who may question it. Take it from me, coaches can't swim. The ones, if any, who will respond to this post, incandescent with 'letter rage', are of course rare exceptions to this otherwise universal truth. Viewing these authority figures goose-stepping about on the poolside from the water, the poor swimmer is on a psychological hiding to nothing. They tower over you and make you feel like a primary school kid again. This particular form of intimidation only works however if they dress for the part. I recall the loss of dignity to one lady coach who, on her way to a barn dance, turned up in a skirt, only to have her undies thoroughly appraised by the below-foot-level swimmers. Perhaps that's why they're so wedded to their track suits. There is no logic to wearing a track suit - none of them ever goes near a track- but they mostly do, don't they? Especially when travelling, the track suit is the uniform which lifts them above normal mortals. I suppose too, they think it looks racy and hints at a prowess that they are too modest to disclose. To call all coaches closet Nazis would be unfair. I heard of one who wasn't ( - he was thrown out of the Nazi party for cruelty). However, the power which accompanies the job has to be one of their main turn-ons. As well as enabling them always to nick the front seat in the bus on the way to galas, this can easily lead to a sadism second only to that of a Parking Warden. The setting of exercises is a field day for their love of others' suffering. I once laboured under a coach who was so obsessed with 'throw-overs' and 'catch-ups', that we re-named them 'catch-overs and throw-ups', with good reason. On one occasion I recall the pool had to be cleared because of the after effects of this nauseating (sic) exercise. IM's stood for Individual Maladies in our club. Also, I wonder if coaches carry on shouting when they get home? It can become a bit embarrassing outside the pool, especially when she shouts across the pub that she didn't recognise you with your clothes on. Leastways, I told my wife she was the coach. To add mystique to this control freakery, many coaches also become equipment junkies. These ones think of all sorts of extra kit their swimmers should have. We had a coach once who had acquired a job-lot of heart rate monitors and insisted we use them. The sensor was supposedly held on by a thing resembling a twisted bra. The men, being used only to handling bras on the people for whom they were designed, could not get the hang of this. Consequently the damn things slipped, and most of the men were pronounced dead after 400 metres, as the sensors could find no pulse in their backsides. My vast belly stopped mine slipping, but I was nevertheless condemned by the coach for not trying, as my heart rate actually slowed as I started swimming, in recovery from the effort of putting on the bra. You could say I got the booby prize. Incidentally, the best electronic training aid I have come across was a simple video camera. At least seeing myself in action gave me some slight sympathy for the hosts of coaches who have given up on me. Jargon comes close to equipment in coaches' affection. Don't be bamboozled in to thinking they know what it means though. Make them explain. Once, overhearing a coach going on about a VO2 max, I called for an explanation and was told that it was a milder version of VO5 shampoo. The same coach told me that aerobic exercise was a warm up done with your dressing gown on. A coach is a professional critic, which explains in part why I love them about equally with literary critics and haemorrhoids. I shall however prove with this short post that they can not themselves take criticism from swimmers. Now you've heard it I await your response. Coaches who write in complaining that I am wrong will prove my point. Those who write in agreeing also prove my point. Those who say nothing allow my point to go unchallenged by their silence. This self justifying argument is based on the same logic which allows the coaches always to be right about my training. They say "do what I say, and you will improve.". I do, and I don't improve. So they say "you didn't do what I said, or else not well enough." See what I mean? When did your coach ever say , "oops, sorry! I got that wrong." Much of the jaundice in my view comes, of course, from being a straight cross of those two least of tameable breeds - the master swimmer and the open water swimmer. Master swimmers have all 'been there, done it' - and got not only the tee shirt but the truss as well. Once Prime Ministers start being younger than you, there's nothing much anyone can tell you. We were swimming before Pontius Pilate even started his flying lessons, after all. As for open water swimmers, we're all a bit weird anyway; brainwashed from the hours of sensory deprivation. We're so practised in the masochism necessary for our branch of the sport that we need no sadist on the poolside to help us. At best we will trade insults with some poor devil stuck for hours in a rowing boat, with blistered hands, freezing cold and dying for a loo. Add to this already powerful combination of delinquency a naturally stroppy nature, and you can see why coaches leave me alone nowadays. Anyway, one thing's for certain I shall never be allowed to become a coach after this post, so now you can all breath a sigh of relief.