Kevin's head

"It's a bit worrying that you're this tired after warming up," said Kevin, my gym instructor and, officially, the most annoying person I have ever met.
I wheezed something about being okay.
"Let's move on to the cross trainer," he said, as he lifted me, all limp, from the exercise bike to the next machine.

I surveyed the device and thought of ways to appear like I was working out without actually exerting myself any further. I decided this was best achieved by simply pulling on the bars with my arms, back and forth, propelling myself into some sort of exercise. As I did, Kevin watched my heart rate on the monitor and calculated, in his tiny head, at which point I should stop.
"You're 23..." he muttered, "220 minus..." Then, looking again at the monitor, "Yep. Stop there." With that he slammed the stop button and I became all limp again.

The next thing I know, I'm half way home, limp on a bench, about to throw up. But all I see is a bin with a roof on and an opening around its sides large enough to deposit a banana skin or an apple core. With little choice and just enough turgidity in my neck to tilt it I threw up the best I could into its little opening. The turgidity in my neck gave way and I slumped back into the bench, all limp. I imagined that the bin, oozing with my vomit, was Kevin's head, and suddenly felt much, much better.

The Weights Are The Hardest Part

The last time I ventured into a gym was during my university days. Well, it was really just the one day. And a gym induction. The tour alone was enough to give me a stitch and, needless to say, I am in no better shape today than I was two years ago.

Since then, I have graduated from the exercise regimes of walking across campus, to walking to the train station, to finally walking downstairs to my kitchen, as my daily commute has shortened in stages. (Next year I imagine I'll be working in my sleep.)

Working from home provides me with almost no exercise at all and at 23, a quite worrying shortness of breath. So it seemed as good a time as any, perhaps even a crucial time, to join the gym.

And when I did, I met Kevin, my gym instructor, and possibly the most annoying guy I have ever met.

"So, you want to join the gym."
"Yes. I want to join the gym."
Without looking he reached for a clipboard under his desk, as per the drill, and grabbed a pen from behind his ear - clicking it more times than was necessary. "Right," he said. "Let me walk you through the form."
Although I wondered if there could be anything more difficult than my name, address and billing details, I nodded all the same.
"Okay. The first bit. It's first name first...and then...is it second name?" He looked over at a framed picture of the gym founder as if for confirmation. "Yeah, second name."
"First name, second name," I confirmed. "Yep, got it."
"Then address." He looked to that section of the form and then to me. "Do you know your address?"
"Yep. Pretty sure I do."

It continued like this until the second page and the section, 'Your Exercise Goals.'
"Right. What sort of stuff do you want to do? Like, general fitness..." Then, looking in my direction, "bulk up?"
"Yeah, just general fitness really."
"And bulk up probabl-"
"No. That's fine. Just...general fitness."
"General fitness..." he repeated, jotting it down on the form, "...bulk up..."
"Not bulk up."
"Okay," he said, clicking his pen shut. "So, a bit of cardiovascular this week. And next week...weights."

Supercuts

I'm about the same height, have the mild manners of a reporter and have even been known to slip into a pair of tights (though, admittedly, not my own). There are, people say, similarities between this man and the Man of Steel. An ex-girlfriend went as far as claiming that my mannerisms were adopted directly from the 1978 Christopher Reeve incarnation - bumbling and bashful, nervously pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. (When ironically, the habit is, in actual fact, the result of an accident that took place on a ride named, funnily enough, after the Superman of my doppelganger. I banged my head against the side of the carriage, lost the nosepiece of my spectacles and have since battled gravity as it insists on sending my frames sliding down my face.)

When I saw Brandon Routh's - even better - impression of Christopher Reeve in Superman Returns, I decided to trade my choppy chops for a more sensible side parting, thus completing the look. Armed with a copy of Empire magazine and its feature on Superman Returns I headed to the hair dressers (of several blog entries) and explained what I wanted.
"Can you do this?" I asked, pointing to a photograph of Routh, a floppy side parting, adorning his brow.
"Sure," said the hairdresser, before she started hacking away.

Now, I'm no stylist (though you might think so if you saw my array of styling products) but I know that, to achieve said look, all I needed was a quick trim to the back and sides. Imagine my concern then when, twenty-five minutes later she's still hacking furiously away. And though I couldn't see much without my glasses I could see that I was losing a lot of hair and, just within my field of vision, my copy of Empire Magazine and the photo of Brandon Routh, beside which stood a bald-headed Kevin Spacey, posing as Superman's arch enemy, Lex Luthor.

"Hang on," I said, putting on my glasses, and turning to my hairdresser. "What are you doing?"

Giving 'Tom Jones' the boot

It's not often that you find a big name, like Tom Jones, thrust back into your life - not least, into your car. But it was not long after writing about his unusual appearance in Shrewsbury that I found myself, quite literally, stuffing Tom Jones into the boot of my Nissan Micra. Let me explain.

I was sent by my employer to the offices of the Town Council to collect some banners that we had produced for a marketing campaign, and was met with the confused looks that you might expect from an overstaffed, under performing local governing body.

"I'm sorry, we have no record of a collection for today," said the receptionist.
"But I called ahead," I said. "I recognise your voice."
"Right," she said. "But there's nothing on the system."
"Yes, because I'm here. I'm standing here," I said. "You told me to come down."
"Right," she said again, looking no less confused. "Bear with me a second."
After some delay she returned from what appeared to be nothing more than 'thinking time' and suggested that the banners I was looking for might be those rolled and stacked against the wall.

I looked at them and after a similar, perhaps spiteful delay, agreed to take them. It was only when I got to the car and began stuffing them into my boot that I realised, from reading what was visible on the rolled up banners, that the letter 'J' didn’t appear anywhere on our marketing campaign. Concerned that these were indeed the wrong banners, I unrolled one onto the pavement and sure enough, it read: "'Tom Jones' here!" You could see how the Council had attempted to avoid confusion by sticking black tape inverted commas around the words 'Tom Jones.'

Even so, I considered taking them home and fixing them to the outside of my apartment building in the hope that, one day, perhaps on his way home to Wales, the singer might stop, confused by the sign, and feel obliged to perform. Though, in Shrewsbury, an adaptation of an 18th century novel is more likely to knock on your door.