Fitness? Rather You Than Me

The Olympics made my life hell.

I don’t mean the sport. I could choose not to watch that – though I did happen to be in a pub when Nicola Adams won the gold and thought her response was the loveliest thing I’d seen on telly for ages.

And I’m not knocking the celebrations. Again the spectacle was quite enjoyable even though I’m not a born flag waver and find stadiums deeply scary.

I’m talking about physical fitness. Specifically my mate Harvi’s new found passion for pointing out my lack of said condition.

Every day the Olympics have been on he’s accosted me as soon as I walk through the door, star-jumping in the hall, running on the spot and demanding that I punch him in the gut (Oh, I have been sorely tempted, I can tell you). ”Just look at those athletes, Philip!” he’d say, “how about we book a squash court/gym session/personal trainer? …” And he’d jab a finger at the overhang at the bottom of my t-shirt. “You could do with working some of that off, matey.”

I’ve had weeks of this unnecessary assault on my self-esteem. It’s been a pain thinking up excuses.

“Can’t right now, I have a sniffle.” “Maybe Thursday, my back’s a bit sore.” “I think I ate something dodgy last night, got a dicky tummy.” “Next week, when the weather’s a bit better.”

Last night his pestering became intolerable. I can’t be bothered with any more excuses. It’s time I hit him with the truth.

The truth is that I just don’t want to play squash, or five-a-side, or ping-pong, or run around a track, pull weights, do push ups, bench presses, or row one of those damned silly rowing machines, or do isometrics, callisthenics, anaerobics, or hire a personal trainer to goad me into good shape, or engage in any form of exercise more strenuous than strolling down the pub.

This may sound unpatriotic and it’s certainly not playing along with our running, jumping, gasping times, but is it okay with everyone if I leave the physical fitness thing to the people who look good all strapped up in day-glo Kinesio tape.

It’s not that I haven’t previously indulged, though maybe not as single-mindedly as some. Not many people know this, but when I was at university someone I shall call Catherine talked me into a game of badminton. I accepted for reasons that were not entirely to do with competitive sport. Badminton is a bloody hard way to impress a member of the opposite sex, I found.

From then on it was four or five times a week, up at 6 a.m., on the court at 7, swipe, swerve and sweat till 8:30, then on to a lecture on seventeenth century Continental metaphysics by 9.

This went on for months. I’d go around touching my toes, displaying my new-found flexibility, poking friends in their pudgy bits, saying: “How about a bit of a game then, work some of that off. I’ve got a spare racket,” and being generally unbearable.

It wasn’t just the exercising. Diet had to alter – you can’t do all that heart-poundingly hellish activity without becoming a prig about what you eat too. So out went the beer, the pizza, the nasi goreng from the slightly worrisome takeaway (the food had psychogenic properties, which is why students didn’t complain about the occasional bout of intestinal parasites), the Sara Lee cheesecake, fish and chips, Yorkshire puddings, anything with a calorie content in double figures, all pastry products, and anything else that in fact tastes good and makes life worth living.

I subsisted on millet and muesli, green lentil broth and steamed brown rice, raw carrots, raw celery, raw peas, the occasional roast pepper (when we were in the mood for a party! no olive oil though), soya spread on rye toast, an occasional red apple, and gallons of Evian between meals because we needed all the hydration we could get.

So, what was my reward for all this self-denial? What did I get in return for all that running and jumping and eating soya mince for supper?

Well, my pulse had a resting pace of 60 beats a minute, which made me a handy metronome if you wanted to play the funeral march.

I lost four inches off my waist and had to spend half my student grant on new pants.

I could admire my svelte physique in my girlfriend’s all-round bathroom mirror whenever I went for a pee (men really shouldn’t be subjected to those mirrors, they are designed to make you either a narcissist or a potential humanity-hating lunatic.)

And I got precisely 2.5% more sex. Given the whole point of the exercise in the first place was an increase in sexual activity with a certain sport obsessed student, that’s a pretty poor trade off for the general misery entailed in the rest of one’s existence.

Yes, fitness is very photogenic but is it worth the effort?

So, personally I’m glad the Olympics are over. I’m pleased that gyms will have a glut of new subscriptions, which few people will ever take up; sportswear manufacturers will sell lots of clobber that will look nice on overweight guys in the pub; and children will be able to con parents into buying them new toys so long as there’s some tenuous connection to Tom Daley or Beth Tweddle. But, let’s face it we’ll all soon forget the fitness craze that’s bound to happen.

Fitness is for other people.

So, Harvi, a large slice of cheesecake, please; and it’s your turn at the bar, make mine a double.