Each step of the way I hoped something would prevent me from being able to actually 'work out' today. First, I was disappointed to see that the bloke who deals with joining was there. Bollocks. Perhaps I won't have one of the necessary documents to become a member. 'We just need your bank details'. Bollocks. I should probably tell you about Imran's (that was his name) haircut. I wouldn't want you to miss out. It was one of those weird jobbies where the front half is seriously matted down with gel and the back half is spikey like a peacock's feathers. I think I have a pretty creative mind but I don't think I could design a shitter hairstyle. Some (usually bad) footballers have it and I always imagine that they've entered the salon asking for 'the most expensive haircut you've got'. This perfectly pleasant man had the worst incarnation I have ever seen. Not only had he used at least 3 pots of gel but the front half looked suspiciously like a comb-over leaving me to wonder if he was actually going bald.
Shit haircut managed to get my membership sorted pretty quickly though but before I could 'work out' I needed to be inducted. Yes! Hopefully there wouldn't be a chance to do that for at least a week. No, I could be inducted immediately. Bollocks. Five minutes later my inductor took my blood pressure (fine) and my heart rate which apparently proved that I was officially a little unfit. Bollocks. A part of me hoped that he might decide that I was already in fact the world's fittest man a therefore really shouldn't be there as it'd be like taking the piss. Not the case.
George, took me to the machines. Suddenly, I'm on a running machine. He turns it on. I'm walking. Fine. He adjusts the gradient so I'm going uphill. Ok, fine. He speeds it up a bit. Fine, I think. We start chatting. Right, so you've just told me I'm unfit and now you're going to stand here with me while we prove that very fact. My main problem with gyms is that I feel really awkward in them and very conscious of my inability. Although he was very nice it didn't make things easier. He asks me what I do. Now that I'm starting to sweat just a little I can't think up a lie in time. It's pretty obvious I'm not a labourer. Because it's the last job I did I say 'comedian'. 'Oh right. We used to have that Frankie Boyle come in here. He never used to say much. Just came in with his headphones on and did his workout.' What did he expect? As a comedian is the pressure now on me to come in every day and try out some routines on the the staff there while I'm on the cross trainer? How about I start with my new bit about the bloke with the shit haircut downstairs?
We try out a couple more cardio machines. Well, I do. He just watches while I struggle to look like I'm actually pretty bloody fit already. Then we head to the weight machines. Bollocks. I am a PHENOMENALLY weak man. Often when I mention that, people say 'oh, me too'. Then we arm wrestle and they are amazed by how easy their victory is. This has happened with 6 stone teenage girls. I get on a chest press after a middle aged chubby woman. I move the setting to a significantly lighter weight and huff and puff my way through about 4 'reps'. Does the gym really have to be so humiliating? If you weigh 60 stones it must be hard to find the motivation to lose weight because if you lose 20 stones you're still 40 fucking stone! I feel like that with strength.
Now that I'm a member at a gym that's all going to change though. Just you wait, bitches! In a couple of weeks I'll be like Slater from Saved By The Bell. Every time I walk into a room girls will scream and I will find at least three opportunities every half an hour to flex my biceps.
For those of you who have wondered whether after my last post I did go down to the nightclub below my hotel the answer is no. I think that was a good choice because this is genuinely what happened at that very nightclub that very night!
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-south-east-wales-12517702
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