I've had two weeks off the 7am spin, with the convenient Common Law as an unusually coherent excuse. Back to it tomorrow, though, and because her outdoors is working evenings now, I can't even spend the night five minutes from the gym, at the bumpy-headed Ellie's flat.
I called my dormant exercise bleugh, that one for which I wrote four entries, 'The fuck am I doing this for?'. And never is that question more pertinent than when I throw my leg over the spin saddle at 6.50 and attempt to coax some warmth into my cold, dead legs.
I know what I tell the punters to prise them into the gym at that insane hour. 'Empty stomach, no carbs stored, more time in fat burning zone, sets you up for the day.' I say this jollily and without any inflection that suggests 'Are you fucking insane? Get up an hour early to listen to me shouting at you over M.I.A.? Seriously, dude, if you're happy to get up at 6.15 or so, then you're not going to bed late enough.' Nothing in my tone betrays this, the truest of my bright and breezy beliefs.
I quite like my job, such as it is. I get paid to keep reasonably fit, allowing me to eat and drink lots and lots of unmitigated crap without turning into fat five-chinned porker like the rest of the fucking country. And I get to be the centre of attention. And as far as attention goes, that's exactly where I like to be. But at the same time, this up at 5.45, this hurting by 7.05, this is making me consider yet another fake career.
I was all set up for begging, what with my straggly reborn beard, my wide range of frayed tracksuits, and my lifelessly aggressive eyes but the cunts went and changed the fucking law. You're not allowed to be intimidating any more, apparently. What a fucking gip. All I had apart from the beard, the tracksuit and the eyes was a penchant for sitting on concrete, intimidatingly. Cunts, I say again.
I guess I'll just get up at the putrid, genitally warted crack of fucking dawn instead.
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