The Seine was almost too dirty for the Olympics, but I swam Strathclyde Park loch and it nearly killed me

Earlier this week, Olympic athletes swam in the Seine.

There had been much debate about water quality and the presence of bacteria, but in the end, they bravely took the plunge into the murky waters.

I can’t say I’d want to dook in that river, where public swimming is banned, even though they have been attempting to clean it up. 

After the women’s world triathlon event on Wednesday, an athlete, Jolien Vermeylen, who was representing Belgium, said, “I felt and saw things that we shouldn’t think about too much”, when interviewed by Flemish TV station VTM. 

I suppose it’s not like Switzerland’s pristine Rhine, which some Basel citizens use in lieu of an underground trip. They put their stuff in waterproof fish-shaped dry bags, which are called Wicklefisch, and drift home while wearing their swimming gear. 

I love the idea of clutching my packed lunch, and floating to the office like a sea otter. If you did that in the Seine, you’d probably dissolve like a Berocca. 

It’s the same for most city rivers, I suppose.

Anyway, the whole Paris scenario has given me flashbacks to my own ill-fated swimming event. About a decade or so ago, I decided to take part in the Great Scottish Swim - Scotland’s biggest open water swim - which involved a lap around Strathclyde Country Park’s loch.

What a wannabe amphibious fool. I was going through a fitness kick at the time and was invited to take part, though I hadn’t done any outdoor swimming before.

I thought I’d be innately good at it. After all, I was first in P5 to do a full length of the newly built Royal Commonwealth Pool, and I have a dolphin badge from Brownies somewhere. That’s proof enough, surely?

The extent of my training for the event was a once-a-week sesh of ten short lengths at my local Victorian baths.

I did the breast-stroke, because I have contact lenses, and didn’t want to get water in my eyes. Also, I’ve forgotten how breathing works, when it comes to the crawl, so I didn’t bother about re-learning that.

The day came round too quickly. It was freezing and we were told to wait in an outdoor holding pool, so we could adjust to the chilly temperatures, as the water crept up the legs of our hired wetsuits. 

This was the first time I’d worn one of these. I thought I’d look like a Bond girl, but instead I resembled a freakishly overgrown slug.

As soon as it was time to go, I waddled into the water at the starting line, and realised that I was literally out of my depth. 

There were professional swimmers in the group and they streamed off. They were out of sight in seconds. I was in total awe. These people were superhuman. If they were speedboats, I was the Titanic.

In their wake, this old turtle slowly ploughed through the water, doing my sedate breaststroke and trying to keep my head up. The waves were unexpected and intimidating, and, with every slosh of brown water against my face, I gulped down pints. The contact lenses were collateral.

Soon, I couldn’t see the shore and tried not to panic.

The group kept swimming and before long, I was alone, except for one other woman. I think she was just sticking by my side, because she felt sorry for me. Anyway, the chat kept me going. If it wasn’t for her, I probably would have shrieked for the RNLI.

Once almost everyone else had finished the circuit, a pity party boat came out to cheer us on. 

At this point, it felt like I’d swum the Channel. I was getting slower and slower, and had to drag myself out at the finish line.

I did not drown. Hooray for small mercies. Except, later that night I started feeling horrendous.

Strangely, I had seen the pro-swimmers chugging Coca-Cola after the event, and someone told me that they drink it to kill any bugs they might have ingested. 

I’m not sure if it works, but I still wished I’d had some. To be honest, I would’ve done anything - voodoo, incantations, promises, begging, ritual sacrifice, prayers - to avoid what happened next. 

Basically, I vomited for three days straight, but in a horrific Exorcist-style purging. I’ve never been so ill. 

Until that point, I was very proud of my The Scotsman record of having never taken a sick day off work, but my copybook got well and truly blotted.

I couldn’t even drink water, which seemed ironic, since I’d quaffed about ten litres of loch jus. I phoned my dad - a retired GP. He was worried about dehydration and said that I should go to A&E. 

But, I didn’t, because I just wanted to spend my final hours in my miserable boudoir, thinking about how swimming can get in the sea. In the end, I lost about a stone and had two further bouts of vomiting over the next few weeks. 

My stomach has never been quite as sturdy as it was before the incident. I guess I’ll never know what was in that water. Something worse than Jaws.

Anyway, I felt and saw things that I don’t want to think about too much. I really hope those Olympic swimmers had a Coke.