My arse is whooped.
I've joined a gym and I'm feeling lovely. I just completed my first official work out, apart from working as a labourer, going on massive moody walks for long thinks and doing sit-ups to keep a semblance of muscular tone. Though none of that really counts as proper exercise because I find losing ones breath to be uncool.
The place is rather incredibly swish, very well air conditioned and overlooking a pool/sauna/jakusi. The closest thing I've came to a gym is a sweaty boxing club, which I fled as a child after 20 minutes because they wanted to make me run up a hill, so I was honestly expecting to walk in to something akin to Rocky. Perhaps a load of tattooed bouncers and ex-cons would be there to greet me with a box of roses and a nice friendly clothes line maneuver whilst I was eating them, spraying chocolate and tears everywhere.
The walls are lined with plasma televisions in case you want to plug some headphones into whatever infernal machine you're on and watch infuriatingly poor television, such as the US version pilot of Life on Mars, to get yourself pumped up. Something to angrily rail against whilst on the rowing machine, imagining the Oars are whacking Colm Meany and that bland boring bastard who plays Sam's fucking tedious faces in on each row. Not that they'd show that ever, because it's the most soullessly awful piece of television I've seen since I watched the US version pilot of Red Dwarf, just an example.
I am now officially the gym going sort. Eventually to become an ultra-fit oblivious wanker, too ripped to the core to care even remotely about the feelings of others when my mind will be so busy coordinating my finely toned, highly reflective and heavily oiled Zeus-esque torso.
The place is rather incredibly swish, very well air conditioned and overlooking a pool/sauna/jakusi. The closest thing I've came to a gym is a sweaty boxing club, which I fled as a child after 20 minutes because they wanted to make me run up a hill, so I was honestly expecting to walk in to something akin to Rocky. Perhaps a load of tattooed bouncers and ex-cons would be there to greet me with a box of roses and a nice friendly clothes line maneuver whilst I was eating them, spraying chocolate and tears everywhere.
The walls are lined with plasma televisions in case you want to plug some headphones into whatever infernal machine you're on and watch infuriatingly poor television, such as the US version pilot of Life on Mars, to get yourself pumped up. Something to angrily rail against whilst on the rowing machine, imagining the Oars are whacking Colm Meany and that bland boring bastard who plays Sam's fucking tedious faces in on each row. Not that they'd show that ever, because it's the most soullessly awful piece of television I've seen since I watched the US version pilot of Red Dwarf, just an example.
I am now officially the gym going sort. Eventually to become an ultra-fit oblivious wanker, too ripped to the core to care even remotely about the feelings of others when my mind will be so busy coordinating my finely toned, highly reflective and heavily oiled Zeus-esque torso.