I am really thinking there is a market for books about the topsy-turvy world of gyms. Last week my partner and her sister went to one called KX which was wonderful. It is an absolute snip at £300 a month – plus a trifling £1500 for life membership.
They are perfect, says my partner. “Their attention to detail is impeccable. You get lots of really expensive free toiletries. They even give you flip-flops.”
To be honest, at that price I’d expect free blow-jobs – but there you are.
Tonight we all trooped off to check out somewhere called The Third Space near Piccadilly Circus. The guy who showed us round – William – did a great selling job, but his skills were wasted, as the yoga man was extremely rude, greeting the girls with a snappish, “You’re late!”
Considering this joint costs over a hundred quid a month you might think a little politeness was in order but clearly the arrogant twat hasn’t yet worked out where his money comes from.
In fact that graceless greeting was about the only thing they did hear clearly, as the freezing air conditioning drowned out his whispered instructions. Mind you, they needed some air-conditioning; the place was amazingly crowded, except for the swimming pool, which is excellent and empty.
On balance the girls think the most expensive place they’ve tried is the best value. I think they should save the money, buy a nice new car instead and ride round on bikes to keep fit.
Incidentally, the clowns at LA Fitness, having totally ignored them when they were there, rang to ask if they’d like to become members. Rather like an 18th century whore asking if you’d like a dose of the pox.
That’s quite enough about gyms – but isn’t it odd how half the population is trying to eat, drink and drug itself to death while the other half is pelting round Hyde Park, doing aerobics, eating seeds and falling for utterly bogus tripe about de-toxing.
Odd creatures, people.