Lunch vs nipples

I first signed up for a gym a couple of years ago because in all honesty I had become a rather chubby gent. 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.

(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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