The Fitness Instructors

The close to three months of gym membership, the hard work, the sweat and the labour has confirmed one thing to me; Physical Trainers, or PTs as they're called, are total fucking tosspots.

There are about ten of them at my gym, working shifts, strange patterns of days of, days on, nights and day shifts, no doubt because for the rest of their time they're either at the gym or having music lessons so they can join the boy band when the audition comes up.

If I were a woman, a stupid one who was interested in looks alone, I'd probably think all the male ones at my gym were sex gods, assuming I was a heterosexual woman that is.

There's one guy who's got more tattoos than Kat Von D, a body that looks, well alright, and seems to spend his whole life there. He works there, evidently only with women, attractive ones at that, then spends most of his spare time there with his blonde girlfriend, who he also trains.

I bumped into him with the GF in Tesco the other day, the Tesco that is directly below the gym. They were arguing over which high protein thing to put in their basket, looking for all the world as if they were a couple of models who'd just been rejected from a Holister shoot because the muscular look was so last year, but we'll be straight onto you when it's back.

I hung around for a bit, pretending to look at sausages while eavesdropping, then got bored and wandered off to find the three packs of Cadbury's Creme Eggs. I can do healthy eating too and getting a three pack instead of a six pack just proves it. Of course, the three packs are the sort of thing that will prevent me getting a six pack also, if you see what I did there.

Last night I walked past him in the changing room at the gym. He was talking to another bloke about how he did "clean 60kg, then ninety reps at 10kg and then straight onto a cross border patrol" or something like that. I help my head up high, well as high as it goes, tensed my stomach and walked past.

There are a few female PTs there too. A couple of young girly types who look friendly in a young enough to be a daughter way and then one who baffles me and stands out. In a sea of attractive and physically close to perfect colleagues she looks like she went to the job centre looking for a job that involved horses and animals, but they misheard her or thought it would be a laugh to send her to that gym instead.

Worse still, she got the job. Maybe the manager thought it was test, or that he had to do something for equal opportunities or something. I must admit I don't understand it. Every single one of her co workers wears the latest trendy gear, has the latest high fashion haircut and changes their tattoos to suit what's in fashion on a fortnightly basis, while she looks as if she's one of the "before" pictures on a dodgy fashion programme.

I'm sure she's very nice, which is part of the problem. They're all very nice, smiley and chatty in the sense that I could get drawn into a conversation about how many reps at 60kg I could do (none), but I reckon they'd all struggle with an analysis about the Libyan situation. Actually, now I think of it, I'd struggle with either conversation, so that would be a nightmare anyhow. I'd have to ask The Auf, he'd help.

But they're like a set of clones, made in a science fiction film to run a pleasure planet and make it look good to visitors.

Bastards. Really.