HULK SMASH!

Last updated: Wed, 13 Jul 2005 12:01:00 GMT

Or, at least, Hulk whinge.

My gym isn't cheap. It's not super expensive, but I've got the cheapest membership deal they do and it's costing me £500 a year to go there. It's a nice gym. Lots of good cardio kit, climbing wall, free weights, dojo, tennis courts, plush changing rooms. Communal showers, though, which I don't like, because I'm a bit English about my personal space.

Anyway, I figure I've got to be the scummiest person there. Which leaves me wondering who the hell it is that's scratching stuff on the inside of the toilet doors. If this Jabba person lives up to his moniker, he certainly needs gym membership as much as I do, and he should probably get his fat ass off the crapper ASAP.

But as I followed two teenagers -- chirping the soles of their training shoes and trying to give me the Hard Eye -- into the gym this afternoon, I realised that it was probably them, or jerks like them. Rich dick Dad has a family membership and his rich dick kid spends two afternoons a week proving that, by nature or nurture, being an asshole is a condition that's passed down from generation to generation, and that money doesn't stop you from being scum.

I made my way to the front row of the "cardio suite" and picked one of the 32 unoccupied bikes. I picked one close to one of the four aircon outlets, for the breeze, and straight in front of the TV -- one of six -- that was showing Sky Sports. The Ironman Challenge was on. I admire triathletes. By and large, they seem to be regular folks with regular jobs, and a singular dedication to being all-round super-fit. I like that.

I turned up my MP3 player and settled in for an hour of cycling.

About 20 minutes in, some gym minion turns up, with a pretty girl who's obviously having an induction, or maybe an assessment, before they make her up an exercise routine. Whatever. They wander down the row and, instead of walking past me to one of the many, any millions of free bikes that aren't immediately adjecent to mine they...

Right next to me.

Fine. They'll only be there for, like, five minutes. Yes, I'm a bit English about my personal space but what the hell, I know I should get over it. And I've got my MP3 player on. And I'm watching Ironman. So forget about it.

But then, for no reason I can figure, this guy decides that the best place for him to be, to give this girl instruction, is standing between me and her. I'm loving this more and more. He's literally brushing up against me.

Yap, yap, yap! Yap, yap, yap! This guy's bleating right in my bloody ear. I can hear him over the MP3 player, which is set to "just below the pain threshold." Yap, yap, something about the aircon. Yap, yap, something about what a great gym this is. Yap, yap, we open at six. Yap, yap, I'll put the golf on.

What?

I turn round, and he says something to the woman about changing the channel. And then the bastard walks over to the TV, the one I'm watching, and changes the friggin' channel. He changes the channel on the one TV I happen to be watching, because it's the closest to the one of 31 free bikes he decided to grace with his presence.

"F*ck this," I quipped, as I got off my bike.

I walked downstairs, got my stuff from my locker, and on the way out of the gym I stopped off at the Manager's office, where I politely suggested that they might instruct their staff on the meaning of the word "consideration."

Despite this being the second consecutive blog entry in which I moan to someone about something, I don't think I make a habit of complaining. But that really pissed me off, and finishing half way through a workout hasn't done much to soothe my temper.