Get Madonna a steak bake already

Today I am avoiding the gym.

There are several reasons for this, the first being that I don't want to go. This reason is more complex than it might at first appear however:

1. I have pulled muscles which I didn't even know I had during an intensely competitive game of rounders on the beach, to the extent where I now have to use a cane to get off the sofa.


2. I am not blessed with good co-ordination even when my muscles are supple and up for it.

No. 2 combined with No.1 would mean certain injury, and probably not just on my part. The last 3 times I've been, I've been happily using the treadmill, relatively close to passing out, with the distinct sensation of drowning grasping my lungs and heart, when one, if not all of my belongings have fallen onto the belt and been launched across the floor of the gym very loudly.

Since the only things I normally have with me are an oversized water bottle and my iPhone, this means I either get bowled over with a flying keg of Robinson's fruit and barley (akin to Total Wipeout with the greased travelator), or get dragged to the floor by my ears attached to my phone.

Neither is ideal. I must have oddly shaped ears too, because I just cannot for the life of me use headphones. When I want to run vigorously they simply will not stay put, and yet when I need to free myself quickly from a fast moving iPhone which is becoming heavily entangled in the seat of someone else's exercise bike they're stuck as fast as one of those infuriating metal 2-piece puzzles.

I also cannot work out how to use weights. For a long time I would just lift the heaviest one that I could, then I was told that's what you do if you want to get buff. It certainly explains why I now have the arms of Hulk Hogan - the luminous vest and moustache however is just personal choice.

Another reason why I do not want to go to the gym is that it is located in a part of Newcastle called Jesmond, which at the moment is suffering from a serious case of weirdos. Their epicentre/mother ship appears to be Tesco's, which is alarmingly close to the gym.

All of them talk to themselves, comb their hair with lard, and, by the smell of things, have a quarterly bath in a metal bucket by an open fire in their own urine. My favourite always comes into Tesco to get the same bottle of Tudor Cream, and always brings a bag containing 200 wooden coffee stirrers.

When would you need those?

"Does anyone have 200 wooden coffee stirrers????! We've got a HELL of a lot of coffee here and we're in dire need of a batch of stirrers large enough that they can all be used simultaneously to add sweetening products evenly throughout the drinks (NOT just on top) without any one of our 200 cups of coffee going cold!"

Another oddball passes through every week to buy about 24 white onions coupled with a large array of Freddo chocolate bars. I enjoy it most of the time, but not today.

I also cannot bring myself to face the possibility of coming face to face with Madonna on the treadmill's television this morning. I like to harness my jealousy of Rihanna, The Saturdays, and various female models who flop around RnB videos in order to improve my workout.

Madonna however is not helpful. Unless I'm in a seriously driven mood, the sight of her makes me give up. I honestly would rather look like SuBo, ('the hairy angel') than have stringy limbs dressed up in a purple cheesewire that The Colonal would happily batter and pop in a family bucket.

One million bench presses and one THOUSAND years later……..

Words cannot describe how frightened I am of exerting myself with weights every time I see this image. (Although I suppose I don't drag monster trucks around my garden every morning using only my biceps or crush steel pipes with my thighs after dinner like she does).

I will be attempting to go tomorrow, but today I think it's safer that I stay in and Slendertone my way to washboard abs from the comfort of my sofa.Get Madonna a steak bake already