Crunch Corner

Back at university now..... still stuck on Pornputer.At sports universities it is essential to join a gym. Even the fattest and scrawniest people have a membership and I'm no different. It's a really unusual environment and despite being as hooked as everyone else here, I can say with some certainty that I am in no danger of becoming a 'gym freak'. When you enter the gym you leave the real world behind. Things that matter on the outside like happiness, intelligence, looks and money no longer seems important. It's you, you're muscles and you're cardio against everyone else’s. The new world brings new laws. These laws are enforced by gym police or 'Personal trainers'. Unlike regular police; who fight crime and give hoodlums a thump every so often, gym police sit gormlessly behind computers or stand around pointlessly stretching, occasionally sneering at the civilians. If you are lucky enough to overhear one speaking then the conversation will almost certainly involve how muscular they are.

It is all too easy to get caught up in the competitive atmosphere. It is equally easy to get caught out. The treadmill is particularly bad for this. In the real world if someone is faster than you they jog past and that’s that. The defeat is quick, painful and momentary. On the treadmill however, you’re harrowing defeat is rubbed in your face the whole time your conqueror bounds along beside you. To avoid this I have been know to put the speed up to 19 km per hour for a bit just so everyone around thinks I’m a cross between Usain Bolt and Paula Radcliff. Obviously this speed is unsustainable but sometimes the illusion works. However every so often something awful happens and the person jogging beside me takes a sneaky look at my machine and notices that I’ve only run 300 metres. At this point I am in a bit of a pickle. I’m tiring horribly, stranded miles from an impressive distance at a speed I cannot maintain. The disgrace of slowing the thing down to a sensible 12 km per hour is too great. Stopping it all together isn’t an option either. That way the fucker next to me knows I’m exhausted. I can’t keep up this pace though; I’m not actually Paula Radcliff. There is only one course of action. I continue absolutely deadpan for 10 or so seconds after the initial peek from Mr Nosey in order to give the impression I could effortlessly continue at this pace for some time. Then fake a mild injury. This is done by suddenly grimacing and slamming the emergency stop button. Whilst the running mat bit slows down I hop about a bit as if it’s painful to put weight on my foot. Once it’s stopped all together I give my leg a rub and stretch my foot as professionally as possible. Then I walk out, gym session over. By doing this I have successfully avoided embarrassing myself in front of all the other gym goers. To them I am still a finely tuned athlete. Obviously I am still left with the inner shame that I had to fake pulling a muscle to avoid any real exercise.

P.S Don’t judge me for faking an injury. Footballers do it and they get paid 50 grand a week.