I’ve just got back from the gym which I try not to visit more than once a week. After a half hour brisk walk on the treadmill while watching National Geographic Channel with the sound down it’s time to move to the weights section of the gym which I prefer to consider as more of a medieval torture chamber.
My torturer, dungeon master, tormentor, nemesis, gym instructor, call him what you will, then indicates to which piece of bizarre apparatus I should be subjected first. I then have to perform a series of painful actions laughingly called exercises before being directed to the next piece of torture apparatus. This whole seemingly never ending cycle of pain and anguish ends after about an hour at which point I weigh myself only to discover I’m about 100 grammes heavier than when I went in. Some may attribute this to the water I drank while being tortured but I’m convinced the gym is making me fatter and I have to have a large slice of cake when I get home to recover from the trauma.
I say all this because I do believe that gyms are inherently evil places. One of my heroes, Douglas Adams, was taken from us while in a gym and I have never forgiven them.
George Bernard Shaw, on the other hand, drank a scotch every day and lived into his nineties so I think that’s irrefutable proof that exercise is dangerous.
The other thing about my gym is it’s wonderfully unique use of English.