‘Here’s the Thing…’ – Why I don’t have a Gym Membership – Anymore

Some months ago, in a quest to rid my body of fresher’s fat, I joined the university gym. That was an expensive mistake. This is what I learned from the experience.

Not only did I have to prepare myself psychologically for exercise days in advance, but when I finally mustered the strength to think about leaving the safe confines of my cold hard surface which calls itself a student bed, the trek through Toxteth and the bus ride bursting with lunatic crack-heads loomed, making me sink back underneath the sheets.

This vicious yet inevitable conflict between my vain desire to get slim and my natural instinct to remain horizontal occurred repeatedly until the stack of Chickster’s receipts was higher than my collection of academic books and could no longer be ignored. I realised – it’s time. My first (and last) encounter at the gym proved traumatic to say the least.

Enemy of would-be fitness fanatics everywhere

I arrive, optimistic, with a spring in my step and ready to take on the intimidating exercise machines when a gym bunny strides up to me, “Woah, not so fast…you need to complete your induction before we let you use the equipment”. I frown, exasperated already. What on earth have I gotten myself into? He proceeds to measure my weight, hip size, jeez, he may as well have written my cup size down on that clipboard of his, and finally my height.

“You’re bang on 6 fuh!” I recoil in horror – 6’ 4”?! Christ. That surely counts as a height disorder. I scale the language barrier that is his heavy scouse and figure out he was saying bang on 6ft. Phew… After this ordeal, he decides, to my amazement, that I am fit enough to join the gym officially. So I step on the treadmill with trepidation, only to fall off within seconds. I am totally incapable of using it without hanging on for dear life, even with the incline setting turned to zero and the speed barely above walking pace.Why did no one tell me it was so hard?!

My gym bunny hops over “You are no longer allowed to use this machine,” he informs me, “you are a danger to yourself and your surroundings”. He may as well have a hung a “dunce” sign around my neck and sent me to face the wall in the corner of the room. I laugh, “you can’t be serious…” but trail off as I look over at the poor Asian student whom I’d flattened – collateral damage – and grin apologetically. Still, I refuse to let this dishearten me. I’d spent a good 15 minutes on the grime vehicle that is the 86A to get there after all…

I moved on to the so-called “inner-outer thigh machine”. For those unfamiliar with sporting lingo this is a piece of equipment which requires you to open and close your legs against weights for an extended period of time with the desired effect of toning the upper-leg region. Turns out I don’t have much luck on this either, and instead of putting it to good use end up looking like a sexually frustrated psychopath opening and closing my legs whilst gawking at the gym ladz pumping iron and screwing their faces up into frankly hilarious expressions until their gunz are at bursting point. Yum?

(Artist’s impression)

Ever since that tragic day at the university gym the closest I have come to entering the turnstile gate of hell again is to light a cigarette in the shelter of its doorway, only to be met with judgmental and pitying stares from the hussies on speed (cheerleaders) within. Alternative: exercise outdoors! It’s free, exhilarating and Sefton Park provides some stunning scenery. I actually do run outdoors. In fact, I sprint: away from the gangsters who sit on the wall at the end of my road hollering degrading remarks about the tight fit of my streamline jogging attire.

A friend of a friend once saw me running and apparently compared the sight to that of a buffalo – ahem, I prefer gazelle. Exercise is overrated, expensive and all in vain as my post-exercise overeating serves to prove. If you are not convinced then be my guest and sign up to Liverpool University Gym here.

But don’t say I didn’t warn you…

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