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This is a question Gyms

Getting fit should come with a health warning, warns PJM. "In my pursuit of the body beautiful, I've broken three exercise bikes and two running machines, concussed myself and, most distressingly, bruised my testicles." And he's yet to try and get out of his contract...

(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 13:45)
Pages: Popular, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

I've never been to a gym
But I did once buy a rowing machine after a doctor told me I should exercise more, which is gym equipment so nearly counts.

Well, of course it's the old story isn't it? Turns out that rowing machines are boring, so an initial keen start was followed by six months of seeing the device being increasingly disused. I got a dog instead, reasoning that I'd have to take her out for walks and thus couldn't avoid the exercise.

I put an ad for the rowing machine in the back of the local paper. A couple of days later a neighbour pops round to see if I've still got it. Indeed I did.

I demonstrated the various features - the heart monitor, the bits that slide backwards and forwards, and the pin that you unscrew so that you can fold it up - "Makes it easier to hang your washing on" I said.

He laughed at that - must have thought I was joking.

Anyway, he paid the money, we folded it into the back of his pickup, and off he went.

After setting it up in his spare room, he changed into his lycra, fastened on the heart monitor, strapped his feet into the footpads and hauled firmly back on the handle. Unfortunately he'd forgotten to put that pin back in, and the whole front of the machine reared up like the vengeful wave in A Perfect Storm and damn near hospitalised him.

Three months later, I noticed an ad in the back of the local paper for a rowing machine, and the neighbour was seen about the place walking a dog. Only three months? Perhaps he didn't need anywhere else to hang his washing.
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 17:39, 3 replies)
Running machines and headphones do not mix.
It was quite bad when I was running nice and fast (though going nowhere) on the treadmill, and felt that my headphone cable was snagged on something.

It was slightly worse when, rather than look down and take my eyes off the fit little things demonstrating 'Aerobics Oz Style', I just swiped my hand in the general direction of the snag.

It got really bad when I discovered that what the cable was snagged around, and what I'd just hit, was the Emergency Stop button.

I discovered this when the treadmill abruptly stopped and I ran very hard into the display panel, half flipping over it, and ending up beached on top of it, winded and unable to move. It's not a good look.

This is, however, better than farting away with your headphones in and thinking that just because you can't hear it, no one else can. Or smell it.

(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 17:30, 1 reply)
A question about gyms?
Well, that probably discounts most of the internet fatties who populate QOTW...
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 17:21, 8 replies)
legs eleven
a friend of mine once turned up at my door with 2 free one-day gym passes to our local fitness connection gym. being a lardy fucker, i thought a day's free exercise would do me good, so off we went.
we were immediately started on circuit training, which i'm not overly fond of. after ten minutes on an exercise bike, i was almost ready to quit. i'm stubborn, though, so i decided i wouldn't quit until my mate did. however, she was more interested in working on the trainer than her figure, which meant that i was kept waiting every time i changed equipment, as she was chatting him up.
i don't know what it's called, but i wanted to go on that machine where you sit down and push weights with your legs. the trainer was, of course, still being drooled over by my friend but, the machine looked fairly straightforward, so i sat down and got stuck in.
after a couple of minutes, the trainer came up to me and gave me an odd look. "you okay on there?" he asked. "fine," i replied, "but can you add a bit more weight for me?" giving me that funny look again, he duly added more weight.
for the entire time i was on this machine, he kept throwing glances my way. after i'd finished, he came up and asked me how i felt. "great, why?" i responded.
"because the machine you made me add more weight to was set to its previous weight by a professional weightlifter. you must have incredibly strong legs!"
i didn't give him the reply i wanted to, which was: if you spend your life hefting my weight around, you're bound to get strong legs!
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 17:20, 2 replies)
Quality: very variable
I've been a member of seven different gyms in my life, as a result of moving around the place. Some random high- (or low-)lights that come to mind:

1. Fitness First in Purley, which halfway through my membership got taken over by a cheeky young cnut straight out of business school who had no interest in fitness. His first brilliant idea for attracting new members was to stand in the lobby and hassle existing members to extol the virtues of his emporium to their friends, in exchange for free pizza. Because people who sweat their guts out in an attempt to keep trim are obviously slavering over the thought of free pizza. He then hung a series of giant cardboard signs throughout the gym, at exactly head hight (for anyone over 6' tall, such as me). I had a gentle go at him, saying that someone could get hurt, and was gently and indifferently fobbed off. On my very next visit to the gym a sign fell on some guy's head, pointy corner first. I took great pleasure in witnessing the bollocking from the comfort of the juice bar. N.B. this was also the gym in which, returning from a slightly overlong hiatus, I forgot the respective weights of the differently-coloured discs, and loaded up a bar with much less weight than I thought I had. I thus heaved like a bastard to get it off the floor and smacked myself in the chest with the bar, sending myself flying onto my arse and almost landing in the dumbbell rack just behind me.

2. Muscleworks, Bethnal Green. The best gym in the world, in my opinion. Ronnie Coleman even worked out there, for fuck's sake. Regulars include The Whippet, who's about 6'7" and thin as a rake, and whose entire workout consists of suspending a full-body punchbag and kicking the shite out of it for 45 minutes; The Ambigously Gay Russians, who always spot each other *very* closely and who appear to work out in their underpants; and The Hippo, apparently a British powerlifting champion who easily weighs 150 kg and whose neck is wider than his head. I saw him walk up and down the rack of dumbbells one evening, warming up. His warm-up consisted of: pick up a big feck-off dumbbell; curl it about five times; collapse with exhaustion into a chair; breathing like a two-stroke motor; repeat. Easily the strongest bastard in the gym though.

3. Optiforme, Marcq-en-Barœul, Northern France. Run by a guy who placed second in a French national bodybuilding contest, and it shows. I'm sure Jean-Claude van Damme would look small next to this guy. This was the gym in which I was just finishing my workout when an incredibly hot girl walked in and started working out in the weights room (which normally is 99% male, as for most gyms). She was giving me the eye a bit so I did my damndest to impress her, but by that stage every muscle in my body was already knackered so all I could manage to do was flounder like a nine-stone weakling.

No-one's ever offered to sell me steroids, though. Maybe I don't look the type.
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 17:10, Reply)
Total Fitness
In Stevenage. Paid for a year, never went. That showed them. Stupid gym.
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 16:57, 2 replies)
The current SO...
Lives near Wycombe.

There's a gym there, and it amuses me no end that it's above the KFC.

Mind you, given the choice - I think I'd rather exercise than eat that crap.
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 16:43, 2 replies)
Once upon a time, i was a pudgy thing...
I didnt really notice it up until my 18th birthday when i suddenly got given a gym membership. My sister who gave the membership said "haha your tits are bigger than mine", not far off but thats when i noticed i had to lose weight.

So i trundle along to the gym, lo and behold i saw a sign for the gym with many attractive women on it, thinking i would get a nice view i sped up. Unfortunately i was a victim of false advertising, it was a gym filled with schwarzneggian men and women that looked like the Fat Slags.

After getting over the initial shock of the "women" in skin tight lycra, i thought i would ease into the treadmill. Going along for 15 minutes when a couple starts arguing. Screaming and shouting all i could do was laugh quietly, thats when it happened. This huge woman picks up one of the weightlifting bars and throws it at her partner, he dodges it and it gets caught between my feet. I trip up, fall chin first onto the still moving treadmill and proceed into unconsciousness.

I wake up 10 minutes later surrounded by a crowd of sweating gym goers. Turns out when i smashed my chin on the treadmill i lost a tooth which i then swallowed when unconscious, the didnt completely get off the treadmill so my chin had been friction burnt to hell by the rubber and i had a sprained ankle.

20 minutes at a gym nearly killed me. I am never going back
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 16:42, 1 reply)
There is a gym near me which is at street level and the windows have that mirror finish so people on the street can't see in but the victims inside can see out.

So sadly I never see the look on the faces of all those fat hopefuls on exercise bikes as I stand eating a chocolate bar in front of them.
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 16:39, 1 reply)
Don't read this, it's really boring.
You'll all hate this I'm sure, but my gym story goes thusly: I go 4/5 times a week before work, have made some friends, enjoyed looking at various lovely ladies in lycra, and am in the best shape of my life. I also enjoy laughing at the various gymtards who take it seriously: Meatshake, Grunter, Mr Awesome, Flex to name just a few. Plus comedy greats Ginger, The Heed, and Mr Muscle. In summary: go gym! To all those who are venting their fat-covered spleens at the subject I say meh. I likes it.

Apologies but you'll never get the seconds you wasted reading this back.
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 16:35, 3 replies)
This is going to be a classic QotW
I can already picture the hundreds and hundreds of horrific boasts about benchpressing, situps and online-one-man-upmanship-who-had-the-last-laugh-internet-hardmanisms that really, honestly happened.

I expect the rest of the stories will feature martial arts and some fantastical story about winning a fight, once, against a bully to win the heart of a really fit girl.

I cannot wait.
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 16:18, 5 replies)
I don't get it
What's the question?
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 16:06, Reply)
I have a physically-demanding job and walk most places, so I'm pretty fit.
So much so that even at 25 I have the approximate shape of a lamp-post, despite all the crap I shovel down my pie-hole. And there's plenty of moorland and hills near my village to go a-wandering round; I'd much sooner do that than shell out a small fortune to work out inside a dreary "leisure" centre, clad in sportswear and shorts that seem to work their way further and further up my legs on each wash, inhaling the rancid BO of sweaty, podgy office workers, trying to avoid catching the mad glint in the eyes of the more serial body-builders. No sir, that particular circle of hell is not for me. Emley Moor and a sunny day is all I need.

(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 16:00, 3 replies)
Partly to keep CHCB happy...
... I did see someone get catapulted off the back of a treadmill the other day.

Although I laughed, I tried not to be obvious about it. There's little enough decorum in a gym at the best of times.
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:57, 10 replies)
I bought a home gym...
...a couple of years ago because as my job has me sat on my arse for most of the time, I do need to exercise. But the main reason I bought it is that I fucking hate gym clubs.

First, there's the cost. Something like 30 quid (at least) per month for use of the facilities.

Fuck that.

But that's not the only cost; you also have to invest in sportswear, which depending on how swish you want to look whilst sweating like a rapist in a nunnery could cost twice as much as a years' subs at the gym.

Fuck that too.

Then there's other people, who fall into four main categories. Of course, there's a fair number of normal people, trying to keep fit, not really bothering anyone and just pounding away whilst listening to whatever on their iPod shuffles. Aside from the usual fuck-Apple sentiment, I have no problem with them. But after them come the cunt categories. Firstly there's fitness fanatics who, in the presence of those who view it simply as a hobby or a necessity, turn into fitness nazis, sneering at anyone who isn't taking it as seriously as them or not using the equipment in precisely the correct way. Then there's tarts, either of the male or female variety who are there purely to be seen, as if it was a fucking nightclub or something - swanning around in the most possibly expensive sportswear, being careful never to break a sweat in case it mucks up their foundation/guyliner and gathering in small pods to quietly rip the piss out of pretty much everyone. Finally, if you're unfortunate enough for your club to have a freeweights section, there's the meatheads. Fuck me. Now understand, I've nothing against homoeroticism, indeed I encourage it but these fuckers - slamming those dumbells about, slapping each other on the arse, groaning, roaring, shouting, egging one another on in a Top Gun fashion and generally acting like testosterone-fuelled, closet-confined tosspots and of course, sneering at anyone who can traverse a door without turning sideways. Muscle is nice, but too much of it gets in the way and therefore so do they.

Fuck that, and fuck them along with it.

But my biggest bugbear is all the mirrors everywhere, obviously installed to please the tarts and meatheads who of course love admiring themselves more than anything else. But me, I hate it - do I fuck want to watch myself sweating like a politician on a polygraph and gurning like a half-baked hobo. And even when I'm not, I'm of the opinion that mirrors should be glanced at, not stared at.

Fuck. That.

So I bought a home gym, and it's the best couple-of-hundred quid I've ever spent. I get back after my bike ride home from work, change into a scrappy old t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, do my fitnessy thang whilst the rock channels on TV provide some background, and there's not one mirror or cunt in my vicinity.

Bliss. Fairly tiring bliss, but it could be worse - I could have to go to a gym club.
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:56, 7 replies)
At school...
During my school years, PE sessions used to change after so many weeks (maybe each term). So we would play football for several weeks, then hockey, basketball etc.

On this particular occasion it was Gymnastics, so lots of apparatus was out, crash mats, trampolines, horses (not real ones) etc.

The slightly larger and less confident students (myself included) were doing cartwheels and forward rolls, whilst the fitter and more daring were practising front flips over one of the horses.

To help these particular students, the teacher stood to the side of the 'horse' to guide the future Olympic champions over and onto the crash mat without hurting themselves.

So my mate (let's call him Nathan) was up next. He strode up purposefully, took a run up to the mini trampoline, jumped, hands onto the horse, but then he seemed to lose his balance. He toppled sideways slightly and the momentum took him and more specifically his knee, straight into the teacher's head.

It wasn't until we heard the loud crash that most of us saw what had happened. Nathan and teacher ended up in a heap on the hard wooden floor.

Nathan was fine, having had an angry Scottish man break his fall.

The teacher? Concussion and spent a week at home.

I thought the Scots were meant to be hard.
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:55, Reply)
Kicked Out Of The Class
Back in the late'ish 80's one of my mates used to be a bit more forward thinking than the rest of us whiskey monsters and when Step was all the rage he joined the local Step Class (think a room full of mainly lithe young ladies dressed in Lycra and you get his line of thinking).......

Now this caused much hilarity because back then "real men" didn't do step, (back then real men didn't do gym either but I'm wandering)........

His defence of "it's really hard going" carried no water, but when he changed tack and started using the "you want to see the nanny" defence, well we were all suitably thoughtful.

Now not wanting to miss out on a chance to ogle a room full of semi naked woman a couple of us agreed to go along and give it a try.................

On the night in question we managed to get in sharp at my mates insistence as that way we get to see grab the best spots i.e. the ones at the back of the class.....

Once the class had filled up we dully got into it and did all the silly step up step down bits that the class was based on until we started one exercise where I just lost it......

Basically you stood at the side of your step and moved sideways up onto it, did some arm things and stepped down into a Sumo pose breathing out and making a loud Haa sound as you landed.

I couldn't cope.

For a man who can laugh tears at people farting, a room full of skinny women making out like mini Sumo's was just to much.....

I was asked to leave cause I was laughing to much.

Haven't been in a gym since.....
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:54, Reply)
Join the BNP in a Sauna!!!
So there we were, me and my mate a regular at our local gym and all was well. Not to crowded and started to get on with the locals in there. One guy we got on with was huge and bald but thought nothing of it really. The guy talked to us about bodybuilding and was a friendly face in the crowd...

So anyway me and friend have workout and hit the sauna and in walks the bald guy. We all get talking and all is well until the now imortal line was said....

"So im now off work because I tried to set fire to another Indian"


This man then begins to tell us about the indian guys he has tried to beat up and kill and then tells us how someone tried to set him up with a friend of theirs, they met and the girl was Indian. Apprantly he informed her he was a member of a "little organisation" called the BNP and he can not see her again or things would have to happen.

We were thinking of how to make polite excuses and get the hell away from this guy before he tries to recruit us to the cause when someone walks in. Great we both think, now he will shut up....

we were wrong...

Turns out its another mate of his who then go onto tell us about the best place to start fights with asian guys and the pubs to goto...

We got the flip out of there quick as we liked and changed our gym times to match.

Maybe those guys just needed more Japanese porn? dunno but it wasnt fun.
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:54, Reply)
I have my own personal gym in my house and will use it daily.

Despite using this so often I still am a fat little sod.

I hate being a hamster
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:50, 2 replies)
Gym Induction
I applied to join the gym, and was accepted, but had to go to an induction session. I duly turn up to find 5 or 6 other guys there and an incredibly hot, buxom Swedish girl, who is giving the induction.

She proceeded to work her way round the gym, from machine to machine, contorting herself into all manner of lovely positions, and grunt and sweat her way through each of them, explaining the intricacies of each device. Lovely!

The next day I turned up at the gym, and was just warming up, when a guy came over who I recognised from the intro the day before. After 10 minutes of discussion we discovered that a) we'd both spent the induction watching the hot swedish lass, and b) neither of us had a clue how any of the equipment worked.

I cancelled my membership that afternoon and haven't been back since...
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:47, 3 replies)
Dearest Pops
My Dad is a fell runner and although he isn't the best, he's been doing it for so long he now has the fancy footwork of a mountain goat. I'd imagine he could tap-dance round the Giant's Causeway if so called upon.

One week he'd been too busy at work to hit the hills so he decided to give the new office gym a go. This was little more than a rowing machine, weights bench and treadmill in a spare room and there was certainly no one on hand to show him how it all worked. My Dad thought that he'd stick with what he knew and went for the running machine.

He arrived home later that evening with multiple injuries having lost his footing, been jettisoned off the treadmill and hitting the wall and floor on the way down.

Now he's over 60 he uses his pensioner's bus pass to take him to some god-forsaken hilly clime for free, then run the 10 miles back home. I guess he thinks it's safer.
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:45, Reply)
A gym?
What's a gym?


A gym!
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:42, 5 replies)
I am not only circumferentially challenged...
but coordinationally challenged also. (Pipe down at the back - of course it's a word..)
Thus, gyms are not happy places for me. Nevertheless, I go, I sweat, I pay my dues...and then I go home and eat chocolate, thus rendering my endeavours fairly pointless. Recently however, I've pretty much stopped going due to the tale of woe I'm about to tell.

Whilst I was at uni I used to drive to the gym, do a bit on the bike, a bit of swimming, maybe a bit of crosstrainer and then potter off home. This would happen perhaps three times a week.
Then I graduated and moved back home. Consequently, I stopped going to the gym as there wasn't one near my parents. I got a bit...wobbly. Wobblier, anyway.

A few months later, cue new job, new gym membership, new ‘mature and determined outlook’, the works. In order to use the gym here, you have to have had an induction. This means booking in with one of the freakishly musclebound fanatics that ‘man’ the front desk – if indeed ‘man’ is the right word, as they stand apeishly, overly muscled knuckles dragging on the floor, barely capable of speech unless prompted by certain sports-based vocabulary. For instance, ask one about his ‘team’ (any team) or how much he can bench press, and he will quote you chapter and verse. Ask one how he feels about politics or the weather, and he will fix you with a bewildered, almost bovine expression of bemusement.

I arrive for my induction, greet ‘thug of the day’ and proceed to the equipment. A neuron fizzles fitfully in to life as he asks me what I do (‘Biomedical science’, I reply, and it fitfully fizzles off again leaving him with looking puzzled…). He dutifully shows me each piece of equipment, how it works and what it does, then passes me over to the stick-thin, hatchet-faced shrew who will ‘write me an exercise programme’.
I protest that I don’t want one, but she takes my arm in her vice-like yet bony grip and marches me to the treadmill with a glint in her eye that says ‘I’m going to make you suffer, you chubby fuck.’ I protest yet further; I can’t use treadmills. They make me wobble vociferously – as one foot comes down it causes a tide of outward ripples – these generally make a return as the other foot comes down, causing a further tide of ripples which bash together in the middle, giving birth to little progeny ripples which get together with their mates and have punchups with their elders. Given that most treadmills seem to be positioned in front of mirrors, on the rare occasions I jog I stop after 10 minutes feeling seasick.

She forces me on the thing regardless, cranking the speed up so high that I feel like a hamster on a wheel. Once more I protest whilst I still have the breath to do so, but she insists. After 6 minutes of sprinting I reach for the red stop button, sure that I’m about to pass out, but she slaps my hand away. Irritated, I try again, so she turns down the speed and lets me continue at a sensible pace. Until the 9th minute when, without warning she turns it back up as high as it will go. Unsurprisingly, I shoot off the back of the thing in a cartoon-esque style – you can almost see the dust cloud, and not even Daffy Duck could have done it better.
‘Oh – don’t you normally go for a sprint finish?’, she sniggers as I pick my carpet-burned carcass off the floor.

We move on to the cross trainer. Not the normal, ‘I-can-do-this-forever, or-at-least-til-neighbours-has-finished’ crosstrainer, which I actually quite like. No, this beast supposedly works every muscle in your body and wipes your arse too.
Still, I’m game, so I give it a go even though I feel off balance and constantly like I’m about to fall off; even despite the fact this silly shrieking cow is going ‘come on, faster! Is that all you’ve got? Come on!’ etc etc. She’s really pissing me off so I go for the burn, only to lose my rhythm and yes, you’ve guessed it – fly off the back. As I slump to the floor for the second time in 10 minutes, the freewheeling footpad catches me in the face and breaks my nose which gushes bloodily, causing the shrieking cow to shriek more and me to tell her to fuck rightly off and storm out of the gym.

I’ve started cycling in to work instead now.

Length? Well…all those glistening muscles must be compensating for something, surely?
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:32, Reply)
I went to the gym once
It was for an induction, which was free.

I decided afterwards that it wasn't really for me. Oh I could handle it, but it was a 2 mile bike ride to get there and 2 miles back.

I wasn't prepared to pay through the nose monthly, when I might only attend once a week due to football commitments.

Now, if there was a nearby gym, which was pay-as-you-go I would most certainly go more frequently.

Sadly, no horror stories from me.
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:29, 2 replies)
I regularly go...
to the gym in my Honda Accord. There is lots of hookers and drugs and sex and I'm the only guy there and it's awesome! After being there for 20 hours I walk out pumped and punch geeks and...

Damn. I can't bring myself to fake the amount of arrogance, mis-spelling and fuckwittery needed for a true Accord post. Still, it's out of the way early. Call it a public service if you like. :)

To keep things on topic, I DID join the uni gym once. But like many others I got distracted by beer/work/women and only actually went into the gym 8 months later for my final exam. Bugger...
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:29, Reply)
I believe the correct, proper, established medical term for this is a double-headed piss dragon...
One time I went to the gym in North London with a mate named Karol. He was a member and had a free pass. I’m cheap and never turn down a free anything (I’ve even sent off for complimentary tampons, cleaning products, and a chance to win a breast augumentation operation in the past; would’ve made a nice pressie for my mum). So it was only normal and natural that I chose to go and get sweaty and grunty with my big, butch Polish builder mate one weekday afternoon.

It was free. And I’m easy.

Karol and I got to the gym. Very nice. Changed and set about twatting round on the equipment. And the thing about the gym is its the type of environment where even the most mild mannere type of fella turns into a raging sacks of testosterone. You tend to become all manly. Even though I am officially weaker than a fucking damsel fly, I still attempt to lift weights that are way, way out of my fucking league. And when a couple of young girlies walked in and started stretching and limbering up, both Karol and I instantly attempted to be harder and tougher than the Terminator and Wolverine’s bastard child combined. OK, these girls wern’t anything special – but they had that all important X factor; they had a pulse. AND they were wearing lycra. There was more camel toe action going on than you’d expect to see at London Zoo. It was fucking great.

As it was quiet and there wasn’t any harder, stronger, better-looking competition, Karol and I started chatting to the girls. Just the general low-level please will you let me fuck you stuff. Things were going well. The great thing about infrequent visits to the gym is that any member of the opposite sex you meet there can be easily fooled into thinking your healthy and have the kind of stamina to go like a fucking train all night long. So, my particular girl was showing some interest. Then, as normally happens, I needed to go and have a piss. I excused myself, saying I had to visit the little boys room, and slinked off to the bogs.

And the double-headed piss dragon reared its great brutish head and struck like an unholy harbinger of doom from another plane of existance.... Essentially, I managed to piss myself.

I got the wee chap out, pointed Percy at the porceline and – after a cursory look round for any arse bandits – bombs away. But instead of pissing arrow-straight in one glorious yellowish arc, my cock did the double-headed piss dragon thing and a couple of streams of piss came out of my dick all, well, cock-eyed. Maybe it was the strenuous exercise? Maybe it was the lazy lob-on I was sporting on account of the vauge possibility of actually getting some? But either way, one stream went off to the right, the other shot directly down, soaking my trainers and seeping into my socks. I squeezed my bell end quickly, attempting to correct my cock malfunction, but only managed to douse myself in more hot piss.


I surveyed the damage in the mirror. My light blue shorts had a steamy dark patch round the crotch. I patted my willy and balls down with a few paper towels. No good. Then I realised the smell was pretty fucking awful too, I’d have to do a full on clean. So I whipped my shorts off and ran them under the tap, squirting a little foam soap onto them. I scrubbed for a while, rinsed the stinky shorts off, and attempted to dry them under the hand dryier. Sod it, dry enough. Can hardly tell. Then I slipped them back on, quickly patted at my plums - dry as a fucking bone - and hurried back to the equipment room and the hot unchartered vagina waiting for me there.

The perfect fucking crime.

“So, would you like to go for a pint after this?” I asked, as I stood next to this girl after crossing the gym in as alluring a way as humanly possible for a humpbacked, sweaty, mongfuckwit deformed cunt twat like my goodself . Karol was making good progress with his, looking all manly and masculine, pushing his chest out and pulling his gut in. I had some time to make up. But this girl was staring at me. And not in a good way. Infact, she’d been staring at me since I walked back into the brightly lit gym.

“I don’t think so,” she said with a sneer and stalked off, grabbing her mate’s arm and dragging her away from my Polish pal.

Karol looked at me. Looked down at my shorts. Then he called me a cunt.

Turns out under the bright gym lights the damp patch on my shorts was pretty evident still. But I don’t think that was the clincher, no. You see, it turns out in my haste to get back out to try and get balls deep inside this eighteen year old girl, I’d accidentally put my shorts on back to front...

... apparently it looked like I’d well and truly, runny-poo shat myself...
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:21, 6 replies)
Sir Steve
So, I signed up to the gym.

I hadn't been inside a gymnasium since I broke my best friend's arm in a bizarre vaulting horse accident in school, but I put this trauma behind me and ventured into the room full of torture equipment.

After nodding through the safety briefing, I spent the next few visits tentatively trying out the various implements, until I set my sights on the rowing machine.

There, hammering away ten to the dozen, was a familiar figure. Man-mountain Sir Steve Redgrave, in fact. Jesus, he gave it some punishment in what he said was "won't keep you long - just a bit of a warm-up".

Hardly breaking a sweat, he strolled off and left the rower for me.

Well... if it was THAT easy.

Jesus, I gave it some punishment.

I rowed and rowed and rowed until I was knackered. Looking at the stopwatch, I realised I'd only been on it for 45 seconds, and I was half dead.

Not to be put off, I kept going. And going. And going. Until I was sick down my front.

I crawled - CRAWLED - back to the changing rooms, was sick some more and left, never to darken their door again.
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:17, Reply)
Gyms…. Pfft!
I was once a semi pro boxer and so therefore I have a number of stories that can fit in this week.

I was once in a bout with this bloke who believed he was the greatest boxer ever. He used all the latest instruments to train, all the best gym equipment, etc, etc while I had to make do with what the local area had.

Suprisingly my method of chopping wood and running up mountains to get fit proved to be better than his and I knocked that smug twat Drago out in the final round.

(For anyone else who cares the match before this I had won and legitimately knocked Mr T out- and I do have video evidence)
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:09, 2 replies)
Even more tenuous a link than my "Buses" story? Yewbetcherass it is...
Think I'll just cram this one in here - the cathartic urge to share this story is the reason I finally joined b3ta (alas I joined slightly too late to share it in more appropriate weeks, namely 'School Days', 'Nativity Plays' and 'The Thing I'm Most Ashamed Of Doing With A Penis').

I wrote this back in March and it's been sitting on my desktop waiting for another suitable question. As the story happened in my school gym (and as I'm getting a new work laptop and can't be arsed to transfer it across), I'm going to cram it in here (with a couple of tweaks for topicality). Flame away.

The story takes me back about 20 years, to the days when camcorders were thankfully absent from school plays - not to prevent paedophiles getting their kicks, but because it would have taken a well-trained team of oxen to lug that size of equipment in.

Due to being one of the best in my class at reading (I know, I know - no-one likes a show-off), I had been assigned the role of narrator - a plum role as I saw it, with lots of lines (and therefore lots of the limelight) but no need for learning as I could have my prompt sheet with me at all times. This meant that I paid even less attention during rehearsals than would be expected from an 8-year-old child - notably so during the final dress rehearsal in the afternoon before the big show, where I spent the majority of the time indulging in the fizzy drinks and crisps brought in for the end of term.

All this backfired spectacularly an hour or so before the show - one of my classmates (I shall call him Jon, for that was his name) had developed a rash, and was sent home with suspected chickenpox. Jon was therefore unavailable for the evening's big performance, and so his role - that of Angel Gabriel - needed an urgent replacement.

Deciding that it was too big an acting leap for some of the other kids to make from Sheep #3 to the Chief Angel, the teachers conferred and settled on no-one other than myself as his replacement. My logical protests that I didn't know any of his lines fell on deaf ears, and I spent the next 60 minutes desperately trying to learn the role of Gabriel, whilst another child (I can't remember, but they'd probably been promoted from playing a farmyard animal) smugly took my part, safe in the knowledge that all their new lines could just be read off the paper in their hands.

All the rushing around learning lines and being fitted with a tinsel halo and angel's smock (a hastily adapted white bedsheet) meant that I didn't have enough time to go through the usual preparation for a child actor - namely a trip to the little boys' room. It was only when I strutted onto stage in our school gymnasium, followed and quickly surrounded by a veritable harem of angels (the entire female population of the reception class) that my oversight became apparent. All that time spent filling up on fizzy drinks earlier in the day came back to haunt me spectacularly, and I was squirming around like Michael Jackson's personal physician under cross-examination.

Angel Gabriel didn't have many lines in the play, and from what I can remember my basic job was to inform Mary early on that she would give birth to the son of God. (I can remember that even now, so why the hell couldn't I remember it then, given my hour's worth of intensive training?)

The play started, and all was going swimmingly until the a deathly silence fell upon the stage (a clear sign that it was my line). Try as I might, I couldn't for the life of me remember what it was I was meant to be saying.

With the school gym full of parents (including my soon-to-be not-so-proud mother) watching, I let the pressure get to me in the only way an 8-year-old boy can: I wet myself.

The afternoon spent imbibing my bodyweight in cola meant that my accident was regrettably spectacular - I kept going and going, leaving the crowd of angels around my feet like a pre-pubescent piss-Pompeii, drenched from toe to tinsel.

I then took the only logical option open to me, and attempted to flee from the stage, tripping as I did over my hastily-fashioned smock and falling smack into the middle of a crowd of angels, only succeeding in spreading the flow of piss yet further.

Picking myself up and running to the back of the gym, my last memory of that nativity is hearing the stand-in narrator continuing with his next line, cool as ever:

"And so the Angel Gabriel left Mary, bathed in a golden pool of light..."

Smug bastard.

And no, since you ask - nothing else funny has ever happened to me in a gym. Or with a tramp. Or on a bus.

(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:05, 3 replies)
The one where PJM goes to the gym and ends up on a register
After a long day pushing paperwork, I regularly run from my office in the West End to the gym at Russell Square, carrying my work clothes in a rucksack as I bounce along like a pale spastic Bambi trying to avoid collisions with jaywalking commuters and maniac cyclists. Thus far I’ve avoided physical injury, but the traumas from the psychological collateral damage are far worse….

During one particular hot and humid run recently I noticed that something isn’t quite right. My rucksack was chafing my neck uncomfortably as I dodged round the back of Covent Garden. I stopped to pull the shoulder straps tighter before setting off on my way again, but I was still being chafed uncomfortably.

Sure enough, I hadn’t packed the rucksack properly. By this time thoroughly irritated, I stopped at high street at Holborn and leaned my rucksack on a railing to re-pack it, in the hope that I can continue my journey in more comfort, while the great and good people of London wend their way home on their evening commute.

I paused for a moment and looked up at the pretty young woman crossing the road in front of me, her expression of carefree innocence quite beguiling. I unwittingly caught her eye as she tottered across the street toward me. Embarrassed that she might think I was perving at her, I turned my head downwards as I hurriedly shoved my clothing back into the rucksack when calamity struck.

The sphincter-clenching cringeworthiness of it all still brings me out in a prickly shame as I type this.

Her expression changed from one of angelic sweetness to lip-curling revulsion in the blink of an eye. I can still see it cruelly playing back in my mind in an a slow motion action replay.

In a gruesome parody of a Tom Jones gig, a pair of underpants had detached themselves from the clothing bundle I was trying to organise and fell flapping through the air in front of her.


I desperately flailled at the fluttering, fetid grots, trying to capture the offensive bundle but to no avail. With grim inevitability, they landed at her pristine feet.

“I, erm, I’m so sorry…” I spluttered. I was still blushing when I rocked up, sweating to the gym.

I really am no stranger to endorphine fuelled calamity.
(, Thu 9 Jul 2009, 15:02, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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