It seems I may have to adjust the description of my site: for almost a month now, I’ve given up the grog in the name of fitness for the time being. This has been accompanied by a rather riduculous catalogue of other fitness-related activities at fairly criminal hours of the day.
My early weights training now unfortunately coincides with a soundtrack of breakfast radio at my local gym. I’ve mentioned before that this gym is heavily populated with bouncers, bodybuilders and other folk who would appear as a pile of sausages topped with a cherry tomato in silhouette form.
This painful soundtrack of breakfast radio has lead to the excruciating agony of trying to lift weights which feel like I’m thrusting a fridge beyond my head (when it actuality, its weight is closer to the polystyrene packaging it’d come in) while enduring the “art” of Matt Tilley’s Gotcha Calls. If you’ve yet to witness these with your own ears, it generally involves repeat-calling an ill-angered individual to the point of mental breakdown, revealing that it’s all A BIG HILARIOUS JOKE just after they’re provoked to the final thread of their own precarious sanity.
Here’s the frustrating thing: some of these Gotcha Calls, against the sheer will of my life force, have made me chortle from time to time. Attempting to suppress laughter while you’re trying to lift weights is one thing. The resulting self-loathing generated by laughing at Gotcha Calls in the first place makes things even more difficult. Usually, my facial expression ends up looking like Kerry-Anne Kennerly trying to thinly veil her displeasure with a guest chef, trapped in a stasis field.
Thankfully, it’s not just me. After looking around the gym while these Gotcha Calls boom out around the weights room, I’ve noticed the roidheads nervously trying to gulp down their chuckles, tiny heads darting around like meerkats to make sure their companions aren’t laughing either.
This increased weights/breakfast radio activity will continue for the time being, although I am letting myself off the hook for a few beers an alcoholcaust at Soundwave this Friday. Considering my absence from the bottle, I expect to be absolutely plastered on two light beers, which can only enhance my Dutch courage at attempting to meet my long-time metal man-crush, Brock Lindow of 36 Crazyfists. See you there!
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Breakfast radio is truely awful. :\
Even the JJJ one is pretty shite