A Trip to Yon Gymnasium

I’m going to the muscle farm, muscle farm, muscle farm, going to the muscle farm, all the clink-clonk day...

“Welcome to the metal hell. Can we have your Token of the Damned, please? Okay, the demon will just... heh, that’s strange, it doesn’t seem to be working. Unions, huh, amiright? Ah there we go. Enjoy your brief sojourn of hell-before-death!

“First we have the array of sweat-squeezers, designed to not even give you the false sensation of movement while you race along, fixed to one spot, not unlike the hamster adaptation of Sisyphus: One Man Against A Pissed-Off Lightning God. Then, when you climb down from the sodden metallic horse-carcass, you have your choice of horrific machines or activities...” I tone out the marketing drone and gaze around the damp poorly air-conditioned chamber. Next to the hamster wheels are the treadmills. Let’s drink that in for a moment: tread mills. To tread, in a mill. I believe they passed laws against that stuff back in the heyday of the Industrial Revolution... and now we have the opportunity to do it for free. Without even the tiny pleasure of knowing your exertion will fuel some 19th century British capitalists hedonistic pursuit of top-hat and waistcost (pronounced 'wiskt') wearing. And finally, oh, so very finally, the rowing machines. Experience Roman Empire-era lives, from the very bottom rung. At least, you say with a twinkle in your eye, you don't have the ill health, close, sweaty conditions and ominous music in the background... oh, dear...

For the muscle-bound, there is a range of machines with enough pulleys, weights and flanges to make the Spanish Inquisition feel inadequate. Until, of course, the realisation comes that all the biggest, sweatiest guys ‘n gals are playing around with lumps of free-swinging metal, grunting and gasping and straining like sex-crazed elephants on musth. The 21st century, ladies and gentleman. The premier of physical fitness training is the lifting of barely tarted-up big rocks.

Of course, if you’re going for toning – still one of the most gnomic expressions in the English language, let alone the gym – we have another series of machines. In contradistinction to the simple elegance of the shoulder-pec-arm triad of infernal weight training engines, the toning circuit has such delightful devices ranging from the gynaecological (the ‘lift and spread’, the ‘yes I wore red undies today’), the proctological (the ‘ass in the air for all to see my lumpy butt’) and some which are just confusing. Of course, this ring of humiliation would not be complete without the obligatory metal bench in the middle of the track, knee-high to a Smurf. Some brave souls are willing to pretend to exercise by running up and down the three shallow steps, and then back down, repeating this bizarre ritual until shame and the judging eyes of the thigh-spreading, ass-thrusting crowd forces them away.

I got to experience a new slice of horror today. My left shoulder started acting up again... that bitch, hate it SO MUCH! RAGE! HATE! BILE!

Anyway, went to one of the orange-shirted, smiling, dead-eyed attendants and asked to be repaired. He gave me a condescending chuckle, refusing to make eye contact, and referred me to a handful of rubber strips. At this point I was looking for the hidden cameras and possibly leather-clad doms to appear, but apparently they were some sort of exercise.

I have to say, after pumping iron or fondling steel or fingering copper or whatever fraught expression one uses for exercise, these rubber bands nearly defeated me. Thankfully, there was no-one around in the wooden dance-floor except some woman trying to do situps while an overly-friendly creep refused to leave her alone, constantly badgering her about how she was from the area and he had seen her before. I idly debated calling the police, but eventually he left. As did I.

The sweet embrace of the cool air was heaven after the thirty minutes of perspiring judgement. Gyms – like being on trial in a sauna, and the only verdict is guilty. What a rush.