Hamish McShanks

Ham Shanks Secret Diary w/e 14^th January 2007

January, I think you’ll agree, is not the best month of the year, in fact if we are being brutally honest - it’s the worst. Everyone is on a massive downer as two weeks of constant partying have just come to an end and reality is kicking in mighty hard. Payday is a distant speck on the horizon and other than the seventeen pounds of festering turkey carcass which is turning green in your fridge, the cupboards are bare. Chocolate money, whilst tasty, has yet to be deemed legal tender in the UK so you are going to have to survive on Christmas leftovers for a month.

The lack of daylight and the constant rain simply adds to your misery ‘The shortest day was three weeks ago’ you cry as you stare forlornly out the window as yet another bank of dark, rain-laden, clouds blow in. The sun probably is shining but you can’t actually be sure as it fails to penetrate the mass of thick brooding clouds which completely surrounds you.

My theory is that January must be the month the gods do their annual rain audit. Some minor deity is going to really get it in the neck if he doesn’t meet his key performance indicators before the end of the month and the boss is on the rampage. Probably caught out by a random inspection while he’s having a sly smoke somewhere round the back of Olympus ‘Sh.h.h.h.hit here comes Zeus’ he stammers as the big man marches closer, ‘and he’s got a clipboard’ he wails whilst feverishly stamping a sandal on his smouldering rollup. Time to press the big red panic button and ditch six million gallons of excess precipitation on Scotland.

Yes it does sound fanciful, but no more unbelievable than this ‘global warming’ nonsense. I mean, are you warm? I rest my case.

I have also noticed that gyms prey on us during these gloomy times. We’ve all put on a few extra *pounds/stones/tonnes (*delete as appropriate) over the festivities which we are understandably keen to shed. Unfortunately this puppy fat is indeed ‘not just for Christmas’ and turns out to be much harder to take off than it was to put on. Nestling another turkey pie on your stomach you take a swift glug of left over goose fat and flick on the television. What do you see over the crest of your man breasts? An advert for ‘free’ gym membership.

You certainly wouldn’t catch me being lured by a freebee or by the enticing bright neon colours, the prospect of brightly lit interiors and the Lycra clad honey taking fitness classes, I am made of sterner stuff.

‘So is it the introductory offer you are after Mr Shanks?’ ……. ‘Mr Shanks?’, ‘Hmm?’, ‘what?, yes yes, sorry I was just …. distracted …’ she followed my gaze ‘I’m afraid the aerobics classes are not included in our introductory offer’, ‘right, absolutely, fine fine’ I mumbled turning a deep crimson. The receptionist pulled out a sheaf of forms and a clipboard ‘Right Mr Shanks if you just pop along to the fitness suite and hand these completed forms to the instructor you will receive your induction’

I followed the yellow line towards the fitness suite where I was met by an enormous gentleman with a neck the size of a Gorilla. He grunted and pointed to a table where I could fill out the forms. There was no sign of the spandex clad babe from the advert.

The first few questions were straight forward enough, name, age, date of birth, gender ‘Ach this is a dawdle’ I turned the page ‘Have you ever had any significant medical condition?’, ‘Hmm’ I wasn’t sure what was meant by ‘significant’ so I approached the gentleman with the rolltop neck ‘Excuse me, could you help me with-‘I hadn’t noticed that he was tucking into half a cow at the time. A deep growling noise was emanating from the back of his throat and his red piggy eyes bore into me. Carefully I stepped back towards my chair, the snarling subsided and he returned to devouring his kill.

‘Ooookay, we will put a No for that one then’

The questionnaire became progressively more detailed. Had I ever suffered from dizzy spells or fits, what is my blood pressure systolic/diastolic in millimetres of mercury? Devoid of a sphygmomanometer and unwilling to risk any limbs asking the ogre at the reception desk I had to make a guess ‘Uuuum let’s say 25/12, cant be far away’ The rest of the questions were multi-guess so I just ticked them randomly ‘ach nobody reads these things anyway’ I muttered.

Having completed the forms I was getting concerned that the Neanderthal gentleman currently sleeping off his large carnivorous repast was indeed going to be carrying out my induction ‘Well at least he’s well fed’ I thought, desperately seeking a silver lining. No sooner had the thought passed my mind; I was treated to a platinum lining.

‘Mr Shanks is it?’ purred a silky smooth voice behind me. I spun around and my eyes nearly popped out of my head. Think Cameron Diaz mixed with Ursula Andress, buttered with Raquel Welch and gift wrapped in lycra ‘Ham Shanks?’, ‘mwuuah’, ‘I’ll take that as a yes’, ‘I’ll need to go through your form before we start’, ‘smnggfm’, ‘okay’, she flicked over a couple of pages ‘uhuu your blood pressure seems a little bit low but I think we can assume you just don’t know what you’re talking about cant we?’, ‘mnfffgmm’, she rolled her eyes in dismay ‘riiight let’s get started then’

First piece of apparatus to be explained was the treadmill. She showed me the controls then asked me to watch as she demonstrated ‘correct technique’. It was torture. Too much jiggling, such tight Lycra. I have to admit libidinous thoughts were going through my head. I fought hard to conceal my ‘admiration’ for the lady but I was already sweating profusely. Wiggling to a halt she hopped off ‘your turn now’

I hobbled on to the end of the belt ‘have you hurt your back?’, ’no no, I always start running like this’ I mumbled as I crabbed up to speed. Having already been sweating like a man who’d played an hour of squash the minimal exertion meant I was now dripping profusely. The wet running surface and my crouched running style did not compliment each other well. Tripping forward I grabbed for the large red stop button but caught the accelerate switch instead ‘Woooaah‘ I fluttered briefly above the whizzing belt, the toes of my trainers stuttering against the blurring rubber before my sweaty hands lost their grip and I was shot out the back like a chunky Polaris missile.

It’s not all doom and gloom though. I should still have a couple weeks left of my introductory offer by the time I get out of hospital.

Doei