Zoo Gym

It's been a while since I last went to the gym. I'm getting lazy. Lazier. The mind is willing, but the flesh is flabby and uncooperative. I have the back of an old lady, the blood pressure of an old man and an overdraft that would turn Alistair Darling's eyebrows white (finally).

Really, only people who are already fit go to the gym. Stupendously pretty people with arms; real arms, not the fleshy pipe cleaners of mere mortals. And all they do is walk around marking their territory, spraying their scent (Tightass, Calvin Klein) on the machines. And makeup. Who the hell wears makeup to the gym? Do they think they'll meet Mr Right inbetween page flicks of Hello and OK? Let's face it, pretty gym people are only good for one thing. The best you could hope to meet is Mr Right Now Quietly in the Changing Rooms (does anyone have his number?).

Segregation is the key. The pretty people should all go to separate gyms where they can frolic and pose, leaving the rest of us in Zoo Gyms grunting like the sweaty beasts we are. Gazelles be banned; welcome, Elephants. But watch out when we flap our ears, we are either angry or horny. Either way, you're gonna get trampled.