Gym o' Doom
I joined a gym. For I have shamed myself into taking exercise.
Every Monday, you see, I run into five-time Olympic champion Sir Stephen Redgrave as he visits Radio Berkshire to talk about being a rock-hard five-time Olympic Champion who is running the London Marathon for charity. His visit to Caversham normally coincides with my visit to the staff canteen, when I can be seen carrying a tray fully loaded with pie, cake and associated deadly foodstuffs, whilst S. Redgrave lives off raw hummus and freshly culled broccoli, or something. He is 44 years old and looks like a brick shit-house. I am forty and look like shit.
Then there is the self-inflicted shame of agreeing to go on holiday this year with Mrs Duck's enormously extended family, and not wanting to be the fat one by the pool when the Norwegian whalers show up at the villa next door, harpoons at the ready.
Also: I am scared my neck might soon disappear, and I will end up looking like Sandi Toksvig.
So, I joined the gym at work.
After handing over my hard-earned cash, I was shown the torture equipment by my very excellent colleague Jock, and signed the piece of paper that says that if I hamstring myself on the multigym, it would be all my fault. Then, setting approved gym music into the CD player, I was let loose on the apparatus o' doom.
Christ. If people do that for fun, then there is something very wrong in this world.
After 45 minutes of jogging, rowing, cycling and lifting heavy things, every part of my body aches. Every. Part.
Yes, even there.
And there, too.
I staggered back to the office reception with the gymnasium keys, and handed them back to security. And there, coming out of the studio, was Sir S. Redgrave. He was looking like a man-mountain five-time Olympic Champion; whilst I was small, fat and sweaty with comedy hair.
Then I drunk a gallon of water, and was sick in a hedge*.
Just you wait, Redgrave. I've got four years on you. I'm gonna row you right up.
* All this unnecessary effort has done something horrible to my innards as well. The words "through the eye of a needle" are awfully appropriate this morning. Kill me. Please.
This blog is very, very wrong. I should not be publicising this blog in any way, even if I know the person who writes it. It lacks taste, decency, and openly mocks one of the greatest tragedies of the first years of this twenty-first century. I would advise you never to click on this link, ever, because you will probably bust a blood vessel in an apoplectic rage.
It's also very, very funny. Sorry.