You finally get the urge to sign up to a gym. You agree to pay upwards of forty quid a month to experience sweat and pain. In return the gym agree to give you an induction and three free training sessions with a personal trainer. You imagine them to be toned, tanned and in perfect shape.
This seems to be a trend among teen mums and chavs, and it’s wrong in every way. Velour tracksuit bottoms with adjectives on. I do not want to see some chubby heffer with the word ‘juicy’ on her arse cheeks – This is not, and will never be, attractive. It’s not even the most appropriate word to put on their behinds. How about ‘Pungent’? Or ‘Wide Load’? Surely these would be more apt slogans for these fat fuckers. And why do the people who wear these clothes always look like they haven’t washed for about six months? Are these tracksuits actually the uniform for some exclusive club whereby you can only become a member if your greasy fringe drapes over your spotty forehead and you’ve got sixteen gold earrings in each lobe that look like they’ve been pulled out of a cracker? I do not need these people in my airspace. Can’t we create some sort of pikey holding area for these freaks and let them destroy each other by out-scuzzing each other? That would make me really happy.
I hate exercise, but I also hate the way people say how great they feel after a work out. Oh I had a great work out! I feel good! I feel so refreshed after that work out! What a solid work out! HANG ON. Maybe I’m missing something here, but when I exercise, I feel dreadful. Hot, sweaty, tired, puce. My legs are wobbly. I have a face like an erupting volcano. My stomach is fending off a killer stitch. I’m wiping my brow every ten seconds to prevent yet more salty perspiration from dribbling into my eyeballs. I don’t feel great. I feel fucking awful. And I need a lie down. So stop lying, health freaks.