I've never been to a gym
but I used to work in a shopping centre that had one above it. The entrance to the gym was at the back of the centre, leading out onto the main road, the other side of which was the shopping centre car park.

As is usual, the section of car park nearest to the shopping centre was disabled bays. Guess how many of these tended to be occupied by gym-goers who were too damn lazy to walk the extra ten yards to the non-disabled part of the car park.

The people in the disabled spaces were the active ones. The really lazy ones parked on the double yellows outside the gym entrance (and quite often the adjecent bus stop). It was baffling that these people were paying however much per month to walk on a treadmill, but couldn't manage to walk to and from the car park across the road.
(moogal has eggs, Mon 13 Jul 2009, 0:29, Reply)

free carparking
at local gym i belong to there is a free carpark which you can gain acess to by swiping your membership card.
across the street there is another carpark for a small collection of stores [not big enough to be a mall, too large to be called a strip mall].
during the highest demand times for the gym [before and after work each day] the shops are closed and the shop landlords don't seem to care that gym users park there - it's not like any potential shoppers are being inconvenienced.
at these same peak times, naturally the gym carpark fills up
NOW, rather than park across the street, for free mind you, and walk a maximum extra distance of 50 yards to work out, i have witnessed many many gym members sit in their vehicles waiting for a space to come free in the gym carpark for upwards of 10 minutes.
Are they insane or just plain thick as pigshit?

hello, a 30 sec walk, change of kit and warm-up can be achieved in the time wasted, with engine running, waiting for a park.

get a clue you morons. if you are too idle to cross the street from a carpark what on earth are you doing at the gym?

amazed/appalled/furious/*pop*
(amc32, Mon 13 Jul 2009, 0:23, 3 replies)

My brother's mate, "Doughnut"
My brother has a friend who he and all his mates call Doughnut. He's always doing silly things, like meeting everyone at the pub, phoning to find out where everyone is and discovering that he's a week early, that sort of thing*.

One week, he joined a gym. In fairly short order, he found himself on a treadmill, jogging merrily on the spot. He got a bit warm doing this, so decided he'd take his sweatshirt off and continue running in his t-shirt.

While he was running.

So, without further ado, he pulls his sweatshirt up over his head, and gets kind of caught up in it. Remember, he's still running on the treadmill at this point.

No longer able to see, he loses his balance and steps off the side of the treadmill.

And runs full pelt into the weights room, still with his sweatshirt over his head.

My brother was nearly crying with laughter when he told me, and it still cracks me up now, many years later :)


* - another time, he went for a curry with a group of mates. Not being too experienced in the finer points of Indian cuisine (it was his first curry) he ordered a Vindaloo, "because it was the only one I'd heard of" O_o
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Mon 13 Jul 2009, 0:17, 2 replies)

inteligent design? seems floored to me.
Packed rowing club gym when i was 16. lying on my belly on one of those yoga ball things. chatting to a friend on a rowing machine, i just clipped it. BANG, it fecking disappears. can anyone say they wouldn't laugh at a kid who falls half a meter on a hard surface and lands on all 4 funny bones. wish i'd seen it.
(bowi555 built like a steakhouse but handles like a bistro, Sun 12 Jul 2009, 23:14, 2 replies)

True story.. happened about 6 weeks ago...
I was in the gym, doing a circuit class and decided to leave early to get showered and ready for work (I started work about an hour later and had to get changed and into town to my job).

So I left the studio, went to my locker, got naked and proceeded into the shower cubicles (there are 6 in one area, all facing each other).
Whilst casually walking, I happened to slip en route to the showers, banging my head and elbows rather hard against the tiles. I let out a yelp of pain followed by a "oh shit, there's blood!"
Before I had the chance to get myself back up, TWO, yes TWO, naked men came out of their cubicles offering me a hand to my feet.

I have never been so embarrased in my life. More embarrassment was added when, before the class started the following week, the instructor announced my accident.

I suppose it's karma for leaving the class early...
(ColinS needs to eat, Sun 12 Jul 2009, 22:52, Reply)

World's worst spotter
For the 10 years I have been going to the gym I should have a funnier story, but I don't.

In high school a few friends and I had a weight lifting class together. It was maximum day. We all were testing the upper limits of how much we could lift to chart our improvement over the semester. We were at the bench press and it was my turn. I must have had about 90kg on the bar. It was by far the most I had ever attempted to lift. (pretty impressive as I only weighed about 60kg at the time... sigh)

I struggled to lift the bar it off the rack. My spotter Clint, (same guy who gave the crack head $50 from last week's QOTW) helped me get it up and I brought it down to my chest. As I had the barbell about half way up, Clint turns around, squats, and farts on my forehead.

Clint was in hysterics as I dropped the bar on my chest. I was too disgusted and laughing too hard to lift the weight. My friends were also of no use as they were on the ground laughing. The weights dumped off the sides as my spotter ran out of the gym. I chased him across the football field and caught up with him around the center line. I gave him a very mild beat down and we went back to class.

The gym teacher was furious with him. "Don't you know you could KILL someone by not spotting someone properly! What the hell were you thinking?"

"I had to fart and..."

"You farted on him while maxing out?!? HAHAHAHAHA! Oh, poor Logan!"

Thanks coach.
(anotherlogan and the whit he shites, Sun 12 Jul 2009, 20:20, 4 replies)

Lie back and think of the Common Agricultural Policy
At my local council gym, one the managers is possibly the fittest, in both senses, women I've ever seen. We've always behaved perfectly with each other; I'm fat and wheezy and she has a husband with a lot of gorilla DNA.

One day she asked me to spot her while she bench pressed a pair of 25 kg dumbbells.
After 3 minutes staring down her top, I said "I'm terribly sorry Becky (for such is not her name) but we'll have to stop".

Pause.

"Oh dear, Mr Scars, are you stiffening up?"

"I am, and I've just seen your husband pull into the car park."

She was off the bench like a shot, and I ran for the showers. The COLD showers.

Length? Not quite out of my shorts.
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Sun 12 Jul 2009, 18:36, Reply)

I just walked to the gym
only to find that the opening times for a Sunday are different to the ones on the website.
So I walked home again.

In retrospect the hours walk probably did me just as much good as an hour at the gym would have done.
( Mrs Entity is in hiding., Sun 12 Jul 2009, 18:09, 3 replies)

Gaaah
Have you ever said/ done something, and then immediately afterwards feel like a complete twat and wish that you hadn't?

I've been working quite hard at losing weight for awhile now and it's working. I've been pushing myself harder and harder at my gym and finally I thought I'd be able to squeeze into one of those tight fitting polo shirts they were selling at reception. Finally, a t-shirt with an M in it instead of and XL.

Only it was bloody tight. Not tight enough for me to think 'fuck, put it back' but just tantalizingly enough for me to start wondering if I could get away with it. I'm reasoning with myself now. "It'll hold my moobs in place. It's comfy. I like the colour', etc.

The girl on reception said I looked fine in it. She bloody would do. I go back into the changing room and proceed to innocently ask the biggest bloke in there what he thought.

Why? Why the fuck did I do this? He stops, and stares at me with a look of total wtf on his face. The entire changing room stops and looks at me. He honest to God thought I was trying it on with him, in front of all his mates.

I'm such an idiot. And yes, I kept the shirt.
(oneltrchardonnay, Sun 12 Jul 2009, 16:07, 2 replies)

Poseurs
There was a multi-gym in the gym I used a while back, ran on compressed air - ie: plug it in, pressurised gas provides the resistance you push / pull against. Without the pressure (and power) it was like lifting a cup of tea. It was a piece of shit, as it was always breaking down.

Anyways, minding my own business one day when this thing was absolutely broken beyond repair (and requiring as much effort as tying your shoelaces to "pump iron"), when some bloke comes in, makes a great deal of noise warming up, then sits on this thing (broken, remember - and offering no resistance) and proceeds to huff and puff for the next _ten_full_minutes_ as though he's deadlifting two small cars. Then he dismounts, gives himself a gun-show in the mirror, and walks out.

Alternately there's the two blokes who come in wearing cycle shorts, who then remove their t-shirts and faff about doing nothing of any import, save leaving sweaty marks all over every bit of kit in the place. It's like Bronski Beat suddenly decided to join a keep-fit regime.

Cavalcade of freakery and wonders..
(mymilkshakebringsallthemongstotheyard poison hearts, poison minds - joining hate, Sun 12 Jul 2009, 11:49, 1 reply)

...
It's life, the gym, but not as we know it...
( writerblock ... embedding disabled by request on, Sun 12 Jul 2009, 1:34, 2 replies)

There's a wierd freak...
who attends my local gym and she always seems to do the bare minimum on whatever she's doing. She never seems to break a sweat and spends hours in there. On any of the machines she has on only the first weight, then spends like 3 minutes doing 10 reps. When she's on the exercise bike she pedals at the slowest speed possible against the least resistance. I feel like screaming in her face "Why do you bother? Save yourself the monthly fee and go for a brisk walk everyday it would take more effort".

There's also the skull-fuck twins. I like to refer to them this way because they both have eyes that look like they have received occular cavity sex.

I really should put more effort into my own exercise and stop looking at the wierdos but I can't help myself.
(Plumstix has been spying on you since, Sun 12 Jul 2009, 0:12, 5 replies)

Gym oddballs
I had been a member of the local council gym for a while but, having tired of queueing behind innumerate small, loud children waiting to go swimming I decided to upgrade to the ludicrously overpriced but undeniably luxurious David Lloyd next door, where there would be no kids and I could work out, swim, shower and enjoy the jacuzzi, sauna and steam room with scant need to keep a watchful eye on my feet lest I have my toes amputated by some unsupervised little shit on Heelys.

The first disconcerting character I encountered there appeared while I was on a rowing machine. In front of the machines was a wall of mirrors, and behind was a row of exercise bikes. The portly, middle-aged gentleman in question bopped cheerily in wearing some terribly fetching white shorts and proceeded to sit down on the bike behind me, plug his headphones into the port so he could listen to Big Brother while he exercised and cycle away without a care in the world, sizeable erection flopping from side to side as he pedalled.

A tad distracting, that, but not a patch on gym weirdo number two.

This guy had clearly been rejected by the army at some stage and had never quite got over it. He would come into the gym, topless with camouflage combat trousers on, and hop onto a resistance machine where he would flex his liberally fake tanned muscles while shouting, at increasingly ludicrous volumes:

'COME ON! YEAH! PUSH IT OUT! PUSH IT OUT! YOU'RE SUPERMAN! YOU'RE SUPERMAN! YEAH, YOU'RE SUPERMAN! DO IT! YEAH! YEAH! UH! UH! UH! PUSH IT OUT! PUSH IT OUT! YOU'RE SUPERMAN! YEEAAAARGHHH!'

On several occasions members of staff had to ask him to keep it down because virtually every other person in the gym had complained. I found him quite entertaining, myself.

What I did not find entertaining, more just nauseating, was the time a woman of some 50+ years approached me in the changing rooms- while I was topless with a towel round my waist- and asked me to sign a petition. It would not have been nearly so bad, however, had I not been sitting down, and it would have been positively bearable had she not been fully nude and dangled her pendulous, greying fanny flaps in my face.

Gag.
(clumsyeloquence is a girl, Sat 11 Jul 2009, 21:41, 3 replies)

The Breaking of Farting Strings.
When I was in my mega fit phase a few years ago (sadly I am now a bit of a fatty) I would try to push my body quite far in terms of exercise. I used to go in my lunchtime so I basically had 2 hours (lucky me eh?) to do my stuff. The gym was great because it used to provide all the clothes and stuff to wear so I didn’t need to bring anything with me.

I was doing some bench presses (on my own which is bad but tyg) and I strained so much that I did a poo. A half solid poo. Unfortunately, as I wasn’t wearing underwear cos I would sweat too much and then need to change them, my poo flew straight out of the gap in my shorts and onto the floor. Worse, this was accompanied by a very loud raspberry. People who didn’t have headphones turned to look at me. Some people came over to stare and be disgusted. I honestly thought I had snapped my farting strings.

My entire body was incandescently red with embarrassment. What was even worse is that I couldn’t lift the weights back onto the hook due to being shit-fit weakened. So I was trying very hard to get the weight from my neck and onto the hook so I could run away in shame, loads of people watching, no one wanting to help because, let’s be honest, I was a public shitter. Then it happened again. This was more diarrhoea now, and I had managed to pump my slurry even further. It hit the closest girl watching in the eye.

I put the weight back on the hook. Cringed my way into a standing position, then pushed my way past the crowd, and ran away. As I left, I glanced back to the bench. There was a good half metre trail of excrement from ground zero where I was lying down, to where the poo finally landed. Some less than stout hearted people were crying. No one said a word.

I left my stuff there, ran home, and never went back.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Sat 11 Jul 2009, 16:14, 17 replies)

Did I miss a subtle female signal?
Totally bored on the exercise bike trying to decide which is worse, my own reflection in the wall of mirrors behind the benches or the Jeremy Kyle show. A very well toned body of about 40 in light grey lycra hotpants and top appears at the bench in front of me carrying some small weights. She then turns the bench end on to me, straddles it facing me and lies back to begin her work out. After a while I decided I was breathless and sweaty enough to leave looking like I had really exerted myself. That and realising that my gaze had maybe spent too long on the foot digit of the humped ungulate.
(jvz, Sat 11 Jul 2009, 15:52, Reply)

Members would have sex in the giant jacuzzi at the gym where I worked,
usually with the man lying back on the underwater 'bubble shelf' and the woman straddling him cowgirl-style.

Word'd go round and staff'd cluster on the balcony overhead to ogle, point and laugh.

Later we'd hang around reception when the couple left and give them a Walk of Shame.

They must've thought we couldn't see what they were up to in there, what with the bubbles and all. Silly people.

I personally thought the women doing this were rather pathetic, as we saw no foreplay or cuddly gooeyness going on - just the bloke getting public jollies. Nothing much in it for the girls, who were incidentally usually Polish.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Sat 11 Jul 2009, 13:08, 10 replies)

Cracked Rib...
Same gym - I'd been working out a while so I could manage a full hours **proper** workout without looking like a spaz.

I'm doing some back (I think) excercises - the one where you are bent over a bench and pull some dumbbells up to your chest square up.

That's probably a shit description of it, but that's how it was...

So I'm being cool (mindful of past embarrassments) and I've noticed an attractive lady (it did occasionally and very briefly happen) - Niiiiice - Be cool - bring weight sharply upwards and stop. No! STOP!

I brought the weight sharply and rapidly in to my ribs - it was, I think, a 20Kg weight too - It bloody hurt.

Did I show pain? No - Did I prove that I'm a manly man that can take pain? I sincerely doubt it, but I tried anyway...

I cut my workout short (again) and headed back to the changing rooms where I realised that I was in agony, struggling to breathe and bruised. Nice.

Gym bunny? Me - most definitely not!
(james_tiger_woods is going to start his killing spree on the, Sat 11 Jul 2009, 12:19, Reply)

No, I'm fine. Really.
I'd not been to the gym in a while (I go through fits and starts - the current "fit" has been about a year) - I digress...

I went back to my gym - it was a manly gym - full of men being men on steroids. I only ever saw one woman there who, well, I'm not sure - By God she was ugly - but she could bench press about a gazillion kilos **shudder**.

Again, I digress.

I decided that the best thing to do was to go on the running machine to warm up - fine. Not a problem, I'll take it easy. 10, yes 10, minutes later and I'm jogging gently and I've just notched it up a bit and - ugh, what's the chest pain - why is my arm aching. That can't be good.

SHIT! I'm having a heart attack.

I've gone dizzy, I can't breathe - but I've only been here 10 minutes on the bloody treadmill...

Ok, I know it's not a heart attack as I'm not dead yet - Ok, how to extricate myself without looking like a complete tool.

Ah - there is no way - I'm hyperventilating, I clearly can't breathe, I've gone red (which is an achievement given my skin colour) - so I'll be as cool as I can.

Ah - I can't be **even remotely cool** - I staggered outside and sat on the steps, trying desperately to cool down and not die.

Crap - I'm failing at that too....

Eventually, I manage to stagger - pathetically - to the changing rooms and get showered and dressed.

I've admitted this to noone as I was at the gym as long as I would have been for a full hours workout anyway.

10 minute jogging = 45/50 minutes of looking like a fat, unhealthy, beached whale.

I've since left that gym and joined one where it's ok to die pathetically in public.
(james_tiger_woods is going to start his killing spree on the, Sat 11 Jul 2009, 12:14, Reply)

Rubber Gym
I go to a gym where they provide you with a change of clothes. shorts, shirt, socks and then even supply deoderant. Oooooh.

A couple of weeks ago i got my clothes from reception and as i picked up the shorts i felt something squelchy in the pockets. That kind of squelch you know you have squelched before. So i check the pockets, and the squelch was indeed a known squelch. A couple of condoms (in packet)! Cue baffled looks from all in reception and a discussion of how they got there...

In hindsight, it was lucky i found them in front of the reception, would of been awkward finding them in the change rooms infront of other male gym-mers.

Oh and a quick TopTip. If male and going to the gym. Do not put your things in the bottom lockers. Otherwise you may recieve cock in the face when the above locker holder goes to get their clothes fresh out the shower.
( Disco_box Anything(!?) for a laff...., Sat 11 Jul 2009, 10:38, 1 reply)

LA Air, Not Just for Breathing
One of my uncles owned a small rural general store; in fact he owned and ran the whole town. During the 80's fitness craze he added a small gym onto the rambling establishment, and offered member privleges to people staying at his campsite.

Containing little more than a universal gym set, some free weights, and a sauna, the place wasn't heavily used.

One day a camper visiting from Los Angeles entered the sauna, and found that the latch was faulty -- he was stuck in there for over 4 hours.

Extremely dehydrated, and lucky to be alive, the most notable feature of his condition when found was his color.

So much black goo had seeped out of his pores that his rescuers thought he was Indian. He sued, of course, but was unfortunately killed by an escaped prisoner before the case came to trial. Both misadventures happened on fishing trips, a lesson for us all, I think.
(danalan Pretty good, for an amateur., Sat 11 Jul 2009, 7:43, 1 reply)

My gym is great
I love swimming, and I love my gym for having a swimming pool. After coming out in a rash after going to the local public swimming pool I vowed never to place a toe in a public pool ever again.

Thank goodness for the exclusivity of gyms.

Sorry, I guess that's not really in the spirit of the question, is it? Oh well, I don't have any horror stories to tell about the gym. Working out at home - now that's where the stories are...
(Ms Trilby can't quite give a shit, Sat 11 Jul 2009, 1:56, 1 reply)

May have been stolen from Jo Brand
I've been getting a bit fat lately, and I asked my doctor what I could do about it. He suggested I start off by exercising gently. He advised I start gently by joining a gym and "Do(ing) something every week that gets you a bit out of breath".

I didn't join a gym, but I did take up smoking again.
( MatJ LOOK, Sat 11 Jul 2009, 1:44, Reply)

Dear B3ta
Please, please, please ask a decent question.

Before someone says "Don't read it then", my reply is "These questions are to contribute to as well as to read. You cunt".
( MatJ LOOK, Sat 11 Jul 2009, 1:42, 4 replies)

I had my first
bi experience with a female friend in the gym's sauna. On September 11th, 2001.
FACT.
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 23:29, 11 replies)

How I was violated in the sauna
Once upon a time I was a wannabe fitness fanatic. Incidentally this was prior to my love affair of lounging in bed, eating KFC, reading QOTW whilst simultaneously undoing the button of my size 16 trousers. During this time I joined one of those hideously expensive chain gyms which we shall call Total Madness for the purpose of this story.

I immediately allowed the lunacy of the cavernous air conditioned spaceship to permeate my very being. I desperately wanted to be one of them. Those lycra clad expertly made up women swishing away on the cross trainer for 2 hours without breaking a sweat. I even bought new gym gear: powder blue ladies Reebok jogging bottoms and sporty vest.

Every morning I set my alarm clock for 5.30, struggled out of the bed. Donned my new expensive designer sweat sacks and staggered barely awake to my car. I drove the 2 miles to the shiny glass and steel fitness warehouse. I joined the surprisingly large number of BMW driving, Johnsons dry cleaning suit bag carrying, spikey haired overpaid sales executives and middle managers, and trudged, trying to look like I belonged (as much as a dumpy blonde secretary can) to the changing rooms.

I would then emerge from the bowels of the changing rooms, up the spiral staircase to the upper realms of the dance music booming posing paradise. I would follow my program, masterfully devised by my trainer of 10 minutes on the cross trainer, 10 minutes on the bike, 10 minutes on the treadmill. This was going to turn me into a supermodel. It would allow me to be one of them. One of those orange, perfectly preened, large bicepped femme fatales I aspired to be.

One particularly grey and drizzly morning I arrived in the car park and realised I could not face my daily torment of low level exercise. I decided, in my wisdom, to use the other leisure facilities. Namely the sauna. The soothing heat would melt away my winter blues leaving me invigorated and raring to go work.

Donning my swimming costume and taking my towel I sauntered through the pool bound door of the changing rooms and made my way down the corridor of neutral coloured wonderment to the sauna. I opened the door, the soothing heat causing my tense shoulders to relax. I picked a seat on the upper level, where it would be hottest to flush out the most toxins. After a few minutes I feel the beginings of sleep start to wash over me. A nice warm nap in the sauna begins to appeal so i lie down fully on top of my towel.

Through the warm sleep fuggy haze I am vaguely aware that someone else has entered the sauna. I realise my mouth is open so keeping my eyes closed I try to appear as if I wasn't asleep. Slowly consciousness returns and I open my eyes slightly and roll onto my side. Imagine my surprise to see a wiry old lady with long curly pubes crotch flossing with her towel in front of me.

I sit bolt upright: my mind flounders what to do.

"Oooh it's nice to get warm in here" she says whilst whizzing the towel at high speeds through her hairy spam purse. "Mmm" I reply non commitally trying to avert my eyes from the ever increasing in speed towel masturbation session unfolding in front of me. I become increasingly aware of her lack of effort in drying any other region of her body.

I decide that it's time to make a move. "Right," I say in what I hope sounds like a mature and assertive way "I better get to work". I step down from my second tier sauna perch and move towards the door. The pervy old lesbian makes no effort to move out of my way. "Excuse me," I say smiling pathetically "may I get past?".

The old lady now has a far away and glazed look in her eyes, like a dog in a leg humping session, and continues oblivious to my discomfort to saw away at her rancid mary hinge with the towel. I'm now starting to get worried so attempt to place my hand on her arm to move her to enable me to get out of the door. The crazy old bint turns as I put my hand forward so it lands on her droopy old pancake boob. I leapt, with now a sense of positive urgency, to the glass tinted door and wrench it open. Only to see two of the designer cozzie clad babes staring at me in open mouthed horror.

It dawns on me that to them all they have witnessed, due to the tinted glass, is me pawing a crazing mastubating old lesbo on the tit. I am sweaty and flustered due to the excessive amount of time in the sauna. It looks as if I'm a lesbian geriophile.

I start to stutter an explanation but I'm left like a fish out of water, I realise any explanation would sound even less believable. I instead opt of half running back to the changing rooms, donning my work gear and leaving the place at breakneck speeds.

I never did go back. Instead I choose eating KFC and reading QOTW.
(Fireyfox is prepared to change, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 23:14, 11 replies)

Gyms, eh?
I didn't mind the gym too much.

The huge mound of cars outside all queuing (or, on more interesting days, fighting) for the five parking spaces right outside the front door was more amusing and dismaying. The primpers and preeners were more tragic than annoying. I could even cope with the weird people who seem to do an entire sixty-minute workout on one of the machines I wanted to use as part of my routine.

What got me was the changing room.

Or more accurately, the changing room predators.

Picture the scene. You've gone to the gym when it's nice and quiet. The changing room is almost empty, plenty of space for anyone who wants to change in it. So you wander in, and use whatever combination of randomness, numerology or eastern interior management arts you like to pick a locker and bench.

It was almost guaranteed that, just at the point you'd got your shirt and tie off, the fattest, ugliest and SWEATIEST middle-aged man you'd ever seen in your life would walk into that near-empty changing room and decide, that of all the wonderfully empty places to change that it offered, the place he wanted was the one right next to you.

Having already picked a locker, and thinking that huffily grabbing your stuff and walking across the changing room to another bench would look a bit - well - odd, you sort of shuffle to one side, hoping the man with the world's worst grasp of personal hygeine (and personal space, for that matter) will get the point.

This is the point at which his friend, or associate, or lover, or whatever, will decide to arrive, and the place *he* would like to change is right on the other side of you. In this empty changing room.

It's said that birds of a feather flock together, and indeed, the sweatiest man in the world's friend is the second sweatiest man in the world.

So imagine the situation. You've got about as much personal space as you'd get at rush hour on the Northern Line. You're between the world's sweatiest, ugliest, fattest middle-aged men.

And then they start stripping off.

...

I like the idea of keeping fit, but I'd rather not choose between having to change before going then have to get home before I can have a shower, or being traumatised twice every visit.
(Timberwolf, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 22:12, 1 reply)