Wednesday, 31 August 2011


I heaved open the shrieking metal doors and stepped tentatively out of the welcoming sunshine. The first thing that occured was that a sensation of complete and utter panic enfolded me. One of two things had happened; I had burst into an anti-christ like ball of flames or had been momentarily rendered blind.

As I blinked furtively in the darkness, I tried to decide which of the two was more plausible. The first of my senses to come back into play was my sense of smell. The acrid smell of stale sweat, physical exertion and fear filled my nostrils.

The next man off the sensorial bench was my hearing. The morbid metal entrance seemed to be hiding some sort of sadistic chorus line within its depths. There was a crescendo of deep-bellied grunts, squeals of nervous excitment and whimpers of what could be deciphered as pain or pleasure. The baseline consisted of the whirring of leather straps, the harsh clanking of metal on metal with varying degrees of ferocity and harsh intakes of breath.

Slowly but surely, the furtive blinking technique (excellent for those of you who want to regain their momentarily lost sight or appear like a complete sociopath in public) was taking effect. A blurry vision of tendons, red tear-stained faces and mountains of doubled-up bodies strewn across the floor floated before my eyes.

My whole being buzzed with fear. I began to hyperventilate and break out in cold sweats. What the hell was I doing in this sinister place! How had things come to this? I began to back out slowly, trying not to draw attention to my presence in this dark den of disrepute.

Oh no! Too late! One of them spotted me and like a flock of vultures, one by one, they all turned to gaze at me with beady eyes, all of which held the same message...fresh meat!

I felt like the proverbial fattened calf to the slaughter in more ways than one. Yes readers, Euro Stud has signed up to the gym.

In my humble opinion, joining a gym is a little bit like picking a scab. It seems like a great idea at the time but you´re almost always left with a scar. For example, If you have low self-esteem, the chances of you leaving your first calorie killing gym session feeling fatter, sweatier and about as attractive as a leech in a hemophelia pond are pretty high.

On the other hand, your inner gym-bunny may just burst forth on a wave of newly discovered non-chocolate induced endorphins and convince you to leave behind everything you cherished in your past non-aerobic lifestyle i.e. sharing gossip and a glass of wine with friends, being a couch potato and eating meals that don´t consist of dust, lukewarm water and a slice of lemon.

So, this begs the question; if there´s a thin line between love and hate, should going to the gym be classified under self love or self hate? narcissim or sadism?

This question has been eating me up so much over the past few weeks that I´ve regretfully had to give up my gym membership. It was a sad day for all concerned. However, the brain is also a muscle and after weeks of asking myself, what in the name of all that is holy, was I doing frolicking on a revolving strip of P.V.C. pavement, my noggin is in tip top shape.


  1. Cazza! I read and I liked :) Have to admit, I'm a bit slow this morning so I was a bit concerned as to what you had visited but I agree I agree! Yoga wagon (as she will henceforth be known as) kept us for an hour and a half last night. I contemplated walking out halfway through but she was keeping an eye on me damn her. 'All levels welcome' my ass. That'll teach me: exercise = bad. xx

    1. Ha!ha! Yoga Wagon, Brilliant...she sounds like a character from Star Yoda's long lost cousin or something