Gym - de-stress? Well stressed!!

I consider myself to be a pretty serious gym goer. You know the type. I bring my own gym gloves and my own look of steely determination. It drives away the red mists of rage keeping me both sane in the membrane and sane in the brain. I like to consider myself a “gym guy” most mornings. You know, the guy who looks like he deserves to be there gurning nonchalantly at his own reflection in the big mirrors at the end.

The other day mid way through the gun show, my gym nemesis shows up. This fella rocks in at 4ft 2 with a black cap and makes more noise than your average house party on acid. I had my Arnie from True Lies face on, so you knew I meant business and I was in the zone. BANG!! BOOM!!! CLANG!!!! Ruined. All of it. My chi was de-centred. The Lone Clanger had struck again.

You don’t come into my gym and disrupt my vibe yeah. This morning sanctuary is where I get ready for the day my way at one with my thoughts. It is a place of learning. I will school him. You don’t rave in a library. This is like a library. I’m a freakin' librarian people! I suggest you check the dewy decimal system and look up a book on self control. It’s right next to the book called Volume Control by R. U. Listening cos I will knock you out punk.

The Boom Town Rat was warned by my scornful eye what gazed at him in disgust. It spoke to him in dead languages unheard since Thor first struck his hammer in the Halls of Valhalla. Psalms of fear were sung on whispers in the air. He knew his place. Biatch.


Or so I thought! He was at it again in minutes. Not cool Cappy. Not cool.

But I gave him my look. It was a good look right? I try it to myself in the mirror and shiver.

But still he bangs.

Maybe I’m not the “gym guy”. Maybe I’m that guy who looks out of place and slightly effeminate. Maybe I don’t deserve my own gloves. No tough guy, don’t let the self-doubt creep in! Keep it out like the plague that it is! Don’t let the vermin in (they remain gnawing at the wood framed door to my mind. . .) Come on, you’re the man! Reach over the top! Feel the burn! Embrace the wall! Maximise the pain!

But it’s no use. That over sized kid has made this his place. It’s no longer my library of peace and solitude, it’s his Fun House. Look at him giving Pat Sharpe a high five. I hate Pat Sharpe. And I hate Noel Edmonds cos half the time I think he did Fun House.

From now on it’s a different tact for me. God invented the iPod for a reason. NWA give me peace.