So I’m watching Frasier and it’s the episode where Frasier and Niles and Martin hire a Winnebago and they take a road trip for a reason which I forget now and they end up spending New Year on an Interstate Road in the middle of nowhere after several mishaps of course where everything starts going wrong but comes together in the end.
And I’m thinking this is what I want to do, I want to go on a motorhome (or is it camper van?) holiday somewhere and drive around for a week and I want it to be really rural and cold (maybe snowy) and nobody’s around and I have to wear boots and a scarf and gloves all the time. And I remember that I met Scott 2 years ago in November, so what better opportunity to do this than around that time for a 2-year anniversary type thing.
And it would be fucking brilliant to go to Canada and drive around (because that’s exactly the kind of scenery / experience that I’ve got in my head), but for reasons including that I don’t a) have a passport and b) the money to afford this I decide the next best thing is Scotland – more specifically the Highlands. That’s gotta be bloody freezing, isolated and beautiful, right?
So I go online and find some flights to Inverness (that’s the most Northern Scottish airport I can think of that won’t be criminally dangerous and built out of wood and mud), find some flights for around £100-£150 return (reasonable I think) and then start looking at hiring a camper van for a week. Shockingly, this costs around £500-£600/week. I reconsider, thinking that spending £1,500 just to drive around in the freezing cold exploring the rugged and mountainous regions of Scotland and risking frostbite is a bit excessive. I still wanna go somewhere nice and cold though, but I might have to leave the Winnebago behind.
On Thursday I go to the gym and I’m doing legs and after my lunges I walk over to the leg press and somebody’s using it, so I just wait there for him to finish. Sometimes I’ll ask people if we can share, but on this occasion the machine is turned the wrong way and it’s too fiddly to alternate and I can’t be bothered talking to anyone, so I wait.
Then some guy walks up to me and the following happens. Well actually, let me tell you about the guy first. I’ve been seeing him in various gyms in central London over the past 1-2 years. Call me what you want, but I fucking hate that guy. Well I hate his look anyway. I’ll try to explain but unfortunately I’m scared that I don’t have the descriptive ability to completely convey how ridiculous he looks. Here are some key points:
- He is very short. He is much shorter than me. I am 5’8”, so imagine what we’re talking about here. I estimate that he’s around the 5’5” mark
- He has a very serious steroid problem, i.e. his arms are as wide as my waist and his legs are so big that he can’t walk in a straight line. His thighs just push into each other and direct him into a permanent concave walking pattern. I think if he tried to run he would just spin around himself on the spot
- Imagine that width on such a tiny frame. This is exactly why I should never experiment with steroids, because incredibly short people don’t look that good when they’re incredibly muscled
- He is extremely hairy. Hairs are coming out of everywhere and I don’t really want to think about this anymore
- He comes in the gym wearing a suit, which can only have been bought at Toys R Us. In the “Little Businessman” costume section (if such a thing exists). It’s a bit like this:
- He comes in the gym and he’s reading a copy of the Financial Times every time I see him - whilst training. This is as comical as watching Jodie Marsh read a copy of The Spectator to be honest, because he looks like a Neanderthal and you wouldn’t really expect a Neanderthal to concern himself with financial trends and other such issues. Maybe he is a fucking investment genius though and I’m just a hateful cunt, I don’t know.
- However, I could get over all these things, if it wasn’t for the final point. His working out outfit. Every time I’ve seen him he’s worn the same thing and it truly disturbs me. The guy always wears incredibly short, lycra fitted stripy shorts. I knew I could never describe them perfectly, so I’m so fucking happy I found a picture to show you what I mean. His are so short and tight that just cover his arse, but thankfully we get a full view of over-inflated hairy thighs bursting out from every direction
- To complete the look he combines those with obscenely-cut revealing vest (also seen below). I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to see anyone’s nipples while I’m training. Sometimes we're lucky and he wears an actual t-shirt, but it so long that you can't see his shorts under it (I'm serious), so you think that a little hairy muscled dwarf has sneaked in the gym wearing a t-shirt and no pants.
Anyway, this guy walks up to me as I’m queuing for the leg machine and says (enter heavy Eastern European accent here).
“Are you waiting for machine?”
Me: (enter less heavy Southern European accent) Yes
Neanderthal Guy (NG): Are you both using it?
Me: No, I’m waiting for him to finish.
At that point, to my astonishment, NG walks up to the guy using the machine and says:
“Can I jump in” (therefore stealing my turn in a swift steroid rage induced move)
The guy on the machine gives me an odd look cause he knows what’s happening, but can’t really say anything. So I walk up to NG and the following exchange occurs:
Me: What do you think you’re doing?
NG: If you don’t want to train with people, that’s what happens.
Me: *face drops*
Guy already using the leg machine to me: “Don’t worry, I only have one set left, you can take my turn then”
NG to me: See? When he goes, you work in with me
Unfortunately at that point I should have continued and told him off but I’m not very good at face to face confrontation, plus I think of all the best lines too late. Like when I’ve gone home. Or in the middle of the night.
In the changing rooms later I’m ready to leave and he comes in. He takes his top off in a territory-marking confrontational way in front of me (I can almost smell his sweat) and stands there for a couple of minutes reading the Financial Times in his elastic incontinence pants (I’m not kidding). Then he puts the FT down and proceeds to flex his incredibly short but wide arms in the mirror. Seriously, I am not making this up. I consider hanging around until he gets in the shower so I can flush his pants down the toilet or something, but can’t be bothered with that in the end and just leave.
Seriously now – does anyone who goes to the same chain of gyms as me in London know which guy I’m talking about?
Apologies for this being a very negative and bitchy blog, I’ll return to the usual manic depressive / obsessive compulsive / I love myself - no I hate myself ramblings tomorrow.
I have 1 song by Azzido Da Bass and I've played it 1 time
I have 2 songs by Baby D and I've played them 22 times
I have 8 songs by Babybird and I've played them 133 times