The Catch-22 of taking exercise.

Given the fact that I am fastly approaching the age in life where the expansion of my thighs is no longer prevented by force of mind, I have unfortunately begun to turn into one of those poor souls I used to stare at incredulously from the safety of my gym’s jacuzzi: an exerciser. As such, considering that the gym is a place charged with social tension, I feel pressured to ‘fit in’ with the steady stream of twig-legged lacrosse players and gym regulars. Of course, not being a Mancunian drug dealer, I don’t actually own any tracksuit bottoms that are suitable for physical exertion. I have plenty that are suitable only for lounging and slobbing, something I am well-practiced in. Indeed, such ‘lounge pants’ as I believe they are now known, give the most unflattering, unshapely behind imaginable. If I happen to pass a mirror on such slob-days, I equate my bottom half to resembling something not unlike a blimp in appearance. I would not even dream of venturing to the gym in such apparel. 

So, upon a recent trip home, I visited A Sports Shop, which, being an emporium of sports equipment, was naturally, rammed full of discounted footballs and piles of K-Swiss trainers. Happily, these gave me something to hide behind as I approached a corner containing far too much uncomfortable-looking lycra. 

I grabbed the first tracksuit I saw and was asked by a salesman what sort of sport I’d be doing. “I won’t” I was tempted to reply. “I shall be selling cocaine to schoolchildren in it.” This sounded a lot better in my head. Not meaning to scandalise anyone, in reality I muttered “notsurethankyousomuch”. And no, I did not want to try it on, because I was never planning on wearing such a garment in a public place, so it didn’t matter.

So now, equipped with my in-keeping tracksuit and new, springy trainers, not to mention boob-squashing sports bra, I instantly felt revived in my need to Do Exercise. I returned to my gym a few days later, into a room that contained many implements of torture on the walls and a woman called Mary in the middle of it all. Mary, the former body-builder and all-round fitness freak, the very antithesis of anything I could ever want to aspire to in the gym world. All I could hope for was to prevent my thighs from expanding to The Chafe Stage. 

The Stretching Room in the gym is an alarming place for me. I found myself standing in front of a mirror, looking at my tracksuit bottoms, whilst people all around me were gyrating their hips. Now I’ve seen elderly people in Florida doing this, so I know it is humanely possible. I could not help finding the whole situation absurd.

The main problem with my new exercise ethos has been the sheer complicatedness of it all. I’d rather prance around a ballet studio for 2 hours than “strengthen my core” with a gigantic bouncy-ball. I am struck by the sheer mind-numbing boredom that comes with a gym routine. The monotonous creaking of the treadmill, the incessant whirring of the rowing machine. And the slow-rate of improvement brought about by each breath and each stretched limb! So, as you’re stood there, strapped into some ridiculous weight machine in some uncompromising position, in your silly trousers, stultified by the tedium of it all, I start to intellectualise the process. 

And I have reached an alarming conclusion, the "Catch 22" if you will: if I fail to spend several hours a day lifting things up and putting things down again, strapping by bosom into what can only be described as scaffolding, and testing the limits of my knee joints, I’ll be back in a world of of self-revulsion, plagued by thoughts of “THIGHS. THIGHS. THIGHS.” Once again, I will look upon the twig-legged Lacrosse girls with silent hatred. And if I do spend several hours a day lifting things up and putting them down again, nothing will happen. Nothing other than the certainty of having to wear my ridiculous trousers all over again. 

The Art of Swearing

Those of us who are daring enough to use the c-word need it to be socially risque. Or it ceases to have a point. 

Today, there are bare-naked ladies in the newspapers, sexual perverts in inner-city woodland, and sexually perverted, bare naked transexuals on the internet, and I’d like to bet you have no plans upon visiting a church any time soon. It is all part of the larger picture of time moving on and the habits of a nation changing. And of course, what would once have shocked the country to its core is now considered entirely normal. 

As a nation, it is now perfectly reasonable to sit down, tune into Channel 4, and watch a televised autopsy, hosted by the creepiest man to emerge from the television of recent times: Gunther von Hagens. Yet, contrastingly, we would be astonished and amazed if Nick Clegg suddenly burst out from his position of political lap-dog and made a speech tomorrow morning in which he describes David Cameron as a fuckwit. 

And why is this so shocking? We use the f-word all the time of course. It has entered the common vocabulary of the everyday. Buzz Aldrin definitely used it on the moon and I just know it nestles in the vocabulary of Prince Philip. We think Peter Mandelson used it too, when addressing Jeremy Paxman and the rest of the Newsnight panel during last year’s election campaign, but we can never be entirely sure because a) Mandelson is a slimy, reptilian human manifestation of Lord Voldemort and b) because journalists can’t use it in print. 

We are far removed from the day when the word was first ever used on British television - by the critic Kenneth Tynan - and at the time, it caused national outrage, with one Tory MP suggesting the foul-mouthed perpetrator should be hanged. The f-word was practically taboo amongst the media, despite the fact it was in common usage by most of the country. 

And yet now, just forty or so years later, the status of the f-word as the worst swear word has diminished and dwindled to almost nothing. So why, if words move in and out of common parlance so easily, has the f-word been the ultimate in dirty speech since the dark, muddled dawn of the English language? 

One could easily argue that this is not at all the case. People with pipes, bifocals and v-necked jumpers will claim that it in the not too distant past, words of an anatomical or scatological nature were not frowned upon at all. Because of the general greater influence of the church, all swearwords of the time were religious: Jesus Christ, goddamnit and so on. So they would argue, as a result, that there has been a gradual shift in the nation’s choice of profanity. 

But I really do disagree. And to illustrate my point, I take the worst word in the whole entire world. You know which one I’m talking about, and you’ll know why I can’t even attempt to camouflage such a thing behind a mask of asterisks. 

It can easily be seen, in varying forms, in our literature of the distant murky past, since before the Norman Conquest in fact, although I am basing my historical knowledge on..well, assumption. But to base it in something I have a bit more of a solid understanding of, when Orphelia says Hamlet cannot lie in her lap, Hamlet replies “Do you think I meant country matters?”. These are not the words of delicate innuendo, but a clear example of Shakespeare having a chortle out of the worst word in the world, same as he does in Twelfth Night too, come to think of it. This is something he couldn’t have done without any conviction if it wasn’t still the worst word in the world back then. 

To go back even earlier using my patchy knowledge of our country’s literature, even Chaucer wouldn’t write it bare upon the page, or parchment, or velum, or whatever. He dodged this issue in The Miller’s Tale, infamously full of shameless smut, with the line “Pryvely he caught hir by the queynte”. Mind you, this is pretty obtuse to the modern reader, as to the untrained eye, it just looks like a lack of standardised spelling was causing Chaucer a few issues. 

Following a brief spate of Googling, I now know that the worst word in the world was entered into the dictionary in 1961, but it remains a massive no-no amongst the tweedily decent. The Guardianists and foul-mouthed have crossed the moat, scaled the walls and traversed the bailey of the morally upright, but so long as the keep is held up by the c-word cornerstone, all is not lost. 

Frankly, I’m delighted by this trend, despite the fact I personally despise the worst word in the world. It means that those of us who use it still can with emphasis, because it remains socially risque. 

My own mother is a stickler for no bad language in the house at all. When my dad once exclaimed “bloody hell!”  after dropping a can of paint on his foot when I was nine, it excited a kind of tremulous awareness of all the bad words we could never say. I remember my mother saying to me that those who swear are simply demonstrating that they have a limited vocabulary, at a time when I was very keen to impress my command of the English language. But that simply cannot be so, because for me personally, whenever Piers Morgan appears on the television, I feel postively naked and underequipped if I don’t have some choice of profanities in my quiver Sometimes, only the c-word will do, I suppose.  

Here goes..

I write when my depression is bad. It is a pattern I have just identified, so this post is going to be appropriately reflective and personal. Probably too personal.

It has been a decidedly long while, because life has gotten in the way. Since last posting, have experimented in the borderline illegal, seen in a new year, ensnared new romantic interest and once again feel like self is on the brink of some form of a minor nervous breakdown. So I thought I'd start off 2011, and my resultantly stressful existence, with really cheery subject matter: existential angst.

Coming to the end of three years at university, I am trying very, very hard not to panic. I am also trying to ignore the fact that I would feel completely lost in the world of responsible adulthood, and positively baulk at the idea of selling my soul to a 9-5 job in some nameless corporation at the age of 20. Resultantly, I feel that I have not experienced nearly enough of life to even begin making any kind of life-altering decisions beyond what I am going to wear today. I find the process of feeding myself each day more than I can handle sometimes.

It is strange, because I look around, and see people of all ages trying to find their own way through life, as if there is some manuel that we are all supposed to adhere to and follow. We all seem caught up in the illusion that we all know exactly what we're doing. And I'm starting to realise that maybe it is better for my own sanity that I admit that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. It is the whole process of falling off a cliff and thinking that everyone else knows just how to 'do' life. I can't help but consider the whole 'job-marriage-babies-death' idea so restrictive and bland. I'm desperately attempting to find some kind of meaning in my existence already, and I've not even landed a proper job yet, or done anything that could count towards being a responsible adult, beyond paying some bills. 

The idea of GETTING A JOB induces something akin to a mild panic attack in my brain. I am positively enraged by the likes of today’s celebrities who have afforded such success from being what my father would call ‘turkey exhibitionists’. It is not that I envy their lifestyle, or their fame, but the freedom that comes with the financial security.  This is despite the fact that a large proportion of today’s celebrities seem entirely unable to cope, and so instead spend their fortune on white powder and Priory treatment. I stare vacantly at gossip magazines in Boots and have to resist the urge to tear the pages out, saying “Die, die”. I have to check myself because I know such behavoir is hardly socially acceptable, or normal for that matter. At least I can recognise that.

I was looking at the Dissertation Handbook the other day - a mistake in itself, as it induced more private brain panic - and reflected upon how keen we are as a culture to ascribe manuals and explanations for everything. Ruby Wax of all people observed recently that “household appliances have manuals, but we don’t.” She identifies this potential lack of control and lack of guidance in a culture so used being guided as the root of her own problem with depression. We have a name for it, it is recognised as a medical condition, but the attitude of society differs hugely. 

I suppose I’m waxing lyrical on this subject because I am in a bit of a hole myself, and writing is supposedly a form of cathartic release from the eddying storm of thoughts in my brain at the moment. I’ve become increasingly anxious of the past year that I am not getting any better, and it is not something I can control either. This is what scares me; anyone who knows me can pinpoint my borderline OCD and my need to be completely and totally on top of everything. I am possibly one of a handful of students world-wide who thinks it is entirely reasonable to write an essay the day after it was set, three weeks before the deadline. No overnight jobs for me: I cannot handle the threat of it spiralling out of my control. 

It is not like you can fake depression either. It is almost like your personality goes on leave and you’re replaced by something very dark, very alien. You’re no longer you, which is the most frightening thing. When you’re in the hole, you truly are in the hole. I didn’t plan to try and fight it but I did anyway, and anything would have been better than that pain - it is indescribable hopelessness that seems to permeate every level of your life. In fact, it is bigger than that. And it goes on for months and months. 

And I don’t mean this unusually candid blog post to be some pathetic emo-plight to the world, sorry AHEM, to my three loyal readers. I just want to bring up the fact that it is ok to feel completely overwhelmed and out of control. I’m not even sure I am convinced or accepting of this idea myself, but if none of us have instruction booklets to life, then doesn’t it make sense that we’re all a bit mad in our own little way? 

My burning hate for all things sub-zero.

For the second time in what seems like far too short a period of time, Britain has dissolved into snow-induced chaos. And this affects the student population far more significantly, because of some households' absolute insistence to not use their heating unless 'absolutely necessary'. The fact that temperatures got down to -4 in Devon last night does indicate to me the need for warmth.

For the past couple of days, for instance, I have been extremely ill. I have a running nose, a sore throat, chest pains, ear ache, hacking cough and an aching body. Every few minutes I get a surge of light-headedness: all the ingredients needed to make a convincing Lemsip commercial. Most would assume this affliction to be something along the lines of a winter cold. But naturally, because it is me, and because I despise being ill with a passion so intense you could set it on fire, it wasn't a winter bug at all, but something equivalent to leprosy. In fact, what I've had has actually been bird flu of the leprosy variety, with a light dusting of hyperglycaemia. Had I actually bothered to go to the GP, I would have had my own assertion confirmed: that I was the illest person in the world who wasn't actually dead.

To make matters worse, a cruel Siberian wind has been plaguing this merry isle for the best part of two weeks now. Whilst this was entertaining for about, oh, five minutes, travelling 'up north' to Wales was quite a shock to my life support system. The temperature reading "-17 degrees Celsius" just didn't really register accordingly with my brain, although I was happy to have my feet encased in Ugg boot all weekend. However, I maintain that the Ugg boot turns into the most treacherous footwear available, when confronted with the icy, ungritted streets of Cardiff. They basically act as shortened skis, only about five times more slippery. It resulted in several near misses involving my bottom and icy pavement only too many times.

Naturally, the media-induced panic surrounding the weather and its natural inclination to turn cold at this time of year, has everyone behaving like lemmings. Police are advising motorists to stay at home unless their journey was absolutely necessary. Well, my journey into town today was very necessary, because I needed Weetabix. It also only involved sliding down the stairs outside my apartment block - very ungracefully might I add - complete with the thermal equivalent of a neck brace around my neck.

And as I sit here now, admittedly on the road to recovery, but still shivering and tense with a slight headache and cough, my woefully ignorant of all things medical-self can't help wondering why there is still no cure for something as simple as the common cold.

So low is my faith in the prospect of those scientists ever finding a cure, I am beginning to wonder if the sort of researchers who might have been engaged in defeating the cold are now being swallowed up by the far more exciting and glamorous green movement. Imagine, the very men who might have developed a cure for millions of peoples' seasonal sufferings are, as I write, sitting on an ice floe off the coast of Canada spying on bloody polar bears and logging fish egg production.

Or perhaps he was thinking about taking up medical research, but thought rather than spend his life in a chilly lab in Cardiff with nothing but a pot of viruses for company, he'd be better paid and happier if he went instead to Soho to be an ad-man for Lemsip.

Whatever has happened, the illness only seems to creep up upon us all once the temperatures plummet. I was sat on a bench by Exeter Cathedral in mid-October, in something akin  to a summer dress. Within a matter of weeks, I'm holed up in my (mercifully) well-insulted flat, enraged by the fact that it takes me an extra five minutes to leave the house each day: five minutes dedicated entirely to layering up, against both the cold and alternate means of viral infection, that are yet to be cured. Marvellous.