I’ve signed up for a gym because in all honesty, despite walking more, I’ve become rather chubby. Of course it was capitalism that made me fat, thrusting into my path the opportunity to have two magnificent lunches a day at the top of a large tower with excellent head-on views of large jet aircraft and the British weather. Lunch no 1 was a sociable and often hurried affair conducted as the restaurant opened at midday, but any lingering pangs were laid firmly to rest by no 2, a solo orgy commencing at half past two as the waiters–who gave me a free rein and numerous desserts–were starting to clear up.
Those were glorious days, and I have probably never slept as well in my life as I used to in the chief exec’s private bathroom on the floor below. But one day lunch came to an end and I came to Barcelona, where this evening at the gym–which in August functions as a gay pickup zone–I spied a sight so ridiculous as to make all the suffering (I flew Ryanair) worthwhile: a solitary laddy holding his skimpy little t-shirt open in order to wet and blow-cold his nipples, thus assuring a suitably erect entrance into the weights room.
No idea how long this will last, though if the gym is dangerous, the beach is worse: I woke up the other day with an Amazonian rainforest of a fanny 12 inches from my nose. What’s the point in shaving if no one else does?
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