Physical Fitness: A Monologue by Someone Who Has Definitely Pulled Something Important.

Physical fitness, according to experts, is “essential for long‑term health,” which is a polite medical way of saying: your body has begun making alarming noises and you should probably do something before it folds in on itself like a deckchair in a gale.  

I personally realised I needed to get fit the moment I attempted to tie my shoelaces and made a noise normally associated with Victorian chimney sweeps falling off roofs. This is the first sign you are no longer “naturally athletic” and have entered the phase known as “creaks per minute.”

So you decide to get fit. This is your first mistake.

Because the moment you announce this, the fitness industry  which is worth roughly the same as the GDP of a medium‑sized nation descends upon you with the enthusiasm of a Labrador who has just heard the word “walkies.” Suddenly you are bombarded with adverts for protein powders, resistance bands, kettlebells, dumbbells, smart dumbbells, and something called a “core blaster,” which looks like a medieval torture device but with better branding.

Eventually you pick a workout. Most beginners choose running, because it seems simple: you put on shoes and move forward. What they don’t tell you is that running is actually a highly specialised sport requiring lungs the size of hot‑air balloons and knees forged from the same material as the Blackpool Tower.  

Your first run goes like this:

- Minute 1: “This is fine. I feel alive. I am basically an Olympian.”  

- Minute 3: “My lungs appear to be on fire.”  

- Minute 5: “I can taste colours.”  

- Minute 7: “Tell my family I love them.”  

By minute eight you are bent over, hands on knees, making a noise like a distressed accordion. A passing dog looks concerned. A passing toddler looks concerned. A passing pigeon looks concerned. Even the pigeon is fitter than you.

So you decide running is “not your thing” and try the gym instead.

Gyms are places where extremely muscular people lift heavy objects while staring at themselves in mirrors, presumably to make sure they haven’t accidentally turned into someone less muscular. Meanwhile, you — the newcomer — attempt to use a machine that looks like it was designed by NASA engineers who hated humanity.

You sit down, pull a lever, and immediately discover you have selected a weight setting appropriate for a forklift truck. The machine does not move. You do, however: specifically, your spine makes a noise like a snapped breadstick.

A personal trainer materialises beside you. Personal trainers have the supernatural ability to appear whenever you are doing something wrong, which is always. They speak in cheerful motivational slogans such as “Feel the burn!” and “Push through the pain!” and “No, that’s the emergency stop button, please stop pressing it.”

After three sessions you realise that your main achievement has been sweating enough to refill the Thames.

So you try yoga.

Yoga is marketed as “gentle stretching,” which is a lie. Yoga is actually a series of positions invented by extremely flexible people who wanted to see what would happen if ordinary humans attempted to fold themselves into shapes normally reserved for pretzels.  

The instructor tells you to “breathe into your hips,” which is confusing because your lungs are not located there. You attempt a pose called “Downward Dog,” which results in you tipping over like a tranquilised cow. Everyone else looks serene and enlightened. You look like you’re trying to retrieve a dropped biscuit from under the sofa.

Eventually you accept the truth: physical fitness is not a destination. It is a long, winding journey filled with sweat, confusion, and the constant fear that your hamstrings are plotting against you!?