Like any kid, my school had school sports. Actually, they went a bit over the top, and had three sports afternoons a week.
I was not a sporty kid. I think I could have been, with the right encouragement. Well, maybe not sporty, but at least not stunningly unfit, as I always have been.
The failure was, in many ways, down to the school, or maybe the nature of sports. Apart from the pointless aggression, apart from being forced to stick my head between other boys’ bottoms (ah, the ‘joys’ of rugby), consider the ignorance of the teachers. I remember one event in particular.
His idea of encouragement was to tell us boys to give ‘110%’. Unfortunately for him, yet stunningly unsurprisingly, our school also taught mathematics. We understood percentage—well, I thought I did at the time, and I still think I do. 100% of something is all there is of it. Asking us to give 110% of ourselves was asking us to give more than we are. It was basically impossible. I asked the guy at the time, and he didn’t explain or justify himself, he just repeated the same inane nonsense.
Of course, I was very naïve. I didn’t see the obvious point that I do now, that he was so intellectually lazy that he was parrotting a dismal cliché. How the hell is anyone meant to respect someone who hasn’t even got the nous to create their own phrases? I was quite right at the time to have no respect for the guy, but I was wrong in that the depth of my disrespect was far too shallow.
Since then, I have come across other idiots with a sporty bent. One of the most annoying kind are those arrogant types who sneer at ordinary people who don’t fall for the marketing con of ‘superfoods’. That particular crap got to me because I had to work for a guy who made that kind of gullible misjudgement. To be fair to him, he wasn’t in your face, but his egotistic air of self–superiority shone out of his bottom like spurts of brown light.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m certainly not claiming sporty people are idiots, the great majority are not. But just as nationalist politics tends to attract racists, so, it seems, sportiness tends to attract dimwits.
Which means a decision I’ve recently made is going to force me to hold my nose and put on an intense mask of false politeness—no, I can’t do it. I’ll have to dive into deep, subtle sarcasm, and hope no one gets it. I suppose if they do they’ll have proven me wrong, which is probably for the good.
Yup, hopefully you’ve guessed it, I’m going to have to take up some form of regular exercise. As one gets older, one’s muscles start losing mass. Eventually, this becomes so bad that it becomes dangerous. It increases the risk of a fall, and reduces the chance of recovery. Now, I’m not at the fall stage yet, but I am at the stage where I have to start taking preventative action. That preventative action is—yuk—you’ve guess it—exercise. I am going to have to hold my nose and do the gym thing. And there’s also this.
It’s proving rather difficult. I’ve walked to the nearest gym a few times now, but can’t bring myself to go through the door and ask about services and prices. I have to do it. Note to self: using Dutch courage is an utter no–no!
My age forces me to take action. I’ll join a gym with a physiotherapist who can guide me through the appropriate exercise regime for a fat old git—if I can just push myself through the damned door.