Belly Button fluff. Weird innit?
I have a problem with the way I drink.
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.
I’m 32-years-old this year. I should have stopped playing Football Manager by now. It’s really time to grow up, isn’t it? And yet when my birthday comes around, I know what I want my girlfriend to get me…
Salads are punishment enough. No-one enjoys a salad. We eat them because we feel guilty about our diet, or because our waist-lines are expanding all too rapidly, not because they’re tasty or we’re really in the mood for some leaf. So please, don’t make this meal even worse by sticking cucumbers in it – it’s the equivalent of shitting in your soup.
I have no problems with vegetarians. I applaud their discipline, their moral worth and their courage to not eat meat. Because meat is delicious, and they are really missing out. But they’ve made their decision, they’ve shown their strength of character, and they are sticking by their moral code. Well done you. Unless of course, you eat seafood.
These people are the worst. Fat people who seem to constantly be on a diet despite the fact that everytime you see them, they are EATING.
I have lost count of the number of times I have been on public transport and sat next to someone whose breathing is so heavy it actually disturbs my reading. Sometimes it even manages to drown out my iPod, which is quite an accomplishment.
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.
I don’t enjoy exercise. I do not enjoy the gym. The only reason I exercise and go to the gym is because I hate my body and am sick of staring down at a podgy pale stomach and something akin to tits. I am desperately trying to avoid the onset of middle-aged spread.
So what I really don’t need when I have just exercised for 40 minutes and am tired and puce is to go into the changing room and be confronted by sweaty blokes with their cocks hanging out like it’s perfectly normal to be naked in front of people YOU HAVE NEVER MET.