To make amends for posting an old draft (*vomit!*) of an entry a little while ago I am not only writing something entirely new but also posting it early. My recent hard work in the field of University essays has allowed me a brief window of relaxation which I am using to write this. My subject: exercise.
I'm not well known as an athlete. Despite repeated suggestions from friends to join the school rugby team and secretly wishing in my heart of hearts that I possessed the bodily coordination necessary to wield a tennis racket or cricket bat I never really subscribed to the concept of sport. P.E. was, for me, just a few hours in the week during which I could wantonly display my gross ineptitude. Awkward shuffling on the basketball court, meek attempts to convince the teacher I was actually trying, these were my specialties. Admittedly I was actually quite good at table-tennis. The Forrest Gump inside me forced its way to the surface on a number of occasions. But table-tennis is not (and probably never has been AND probably never will be) really seen as a sport. It's an activity. It's like golf. Chess. Pottery.
When I was younger I was quite small. I should emphasize that I mean when I was much younger. Before being ravaged by the monstrous hormonal rapist that is puberty I was a small, scrawny and generally pitiful child. Once nature started to mould me unceremoniously in her gnarled hands (probably on crack at the time judging by how I turned out) I started to grow. I was, at the age of thirteen or fourteen, exactly the same...but stretched obscenely. At this time I could eat what I wanted, do what I wanted and never an ounce would loiter 'pon the biological street-corner of my skeletal form. This was fine by me, naturally.
Now, five or six years down the line I have essentially stopped growing, three or four inches taller than the average man I believe. Statistics may have changed since my height was last measured by a doctor. I wish I could break the six feet barrier, but I'm stuck in the limbo of 5' 11". Nothing wrong with that. My fellow members of the "frustratingly close to six feet but not quite" club include Dylan Moran, Alan Davies, zombie-faced Boris Karloff, Gene Clark, David Hyde Pierce, Eric Idle and Ian McKellen. Not a bad bunch of people to be the same height as. Although Boris Karloff has probably decayed to a much more modest size by now...
So I have no real qualms about my height. Just as well given that it is not a parameter which I can alter. It is simply that as I have stopped growing it is inevitable that my unsavoury lifestyle will catch up on me and alter my other dimensions. How do I go about resolving this impending disaster? I am unable to exercise in the context of a team due to my phenomenal lack of skill. The sight of me running would be like the gentle caress of red-hot tongs to the unwitting eyes of observers. I don't want anyone to see the appalling vision of my disproportionate limbs flapping about all over the place as I gambol my way through the streets and parks of Edinburgh. There is already enough suffering in this world of ours without such vile misfortune being heaped upon innocent Edinburgers.
What to do? What in God's name should one such as myself do to ward off the looming figure of future-Jamie leering at me from the bathroom mirror, all bulging stomach and wide buttocks, all quivering bingo-wings and dancing jowels.
Well, dudes and ladies, the exercise I have taken up is...
...walking!!!
I know what you're thinking. "Walking doesn't deserve three exclamation marks!" "Such gratuitous abuse of the conventions of punctuation!" "I have half a mind to gouge exclamation marks into your chest while you sleep!"
Those of you with a firmer grip on reality will probably be wondering why anyone would go walking. Alone. Especially someone who lives in inner-city Edinburgh. Well prepare for your doubts to be blown away in the cleansing wind of my Blog entry!!! (I have essentially spent the last seven or eight paragraphs building up to this. Don't ever say that when I make things up to you, I don't make them up to you GOOD AND PROPER.)
A brisk walk is, as any decent doctor will tell you, one of the most beneficial forms of personal exercise possible. For me though, it transcends the realms of mere physical exertion and assumes a seat somewhere in the billowing clouds of mental and spiritual well-being.
Walking is surprisingly versatile. You can set your own level, from power-walking (not my personal favourite as even the most beautiful, graceful person looks an arse...Emily Blunt couldn't even pull it off...) all the way through the spectrum to a gentle stroll. Walking is generally, I think, aerobic. It involves mild physical exertion over an extended period of time, unlike weight lifting or the like (anaerobic) which are generally done in short bursts (and short shorts). Walking is brilliant for toning the muscles. You can feel it. An hour's walk will leave your stomach notably firmer. This will fade after a while but regular walks will increase the lasting time of your beautiful, trim stomach until it attains permanence. Then you can "hit the clubs" and "go on the pull", satisfied with the knowledge that your elegant abdomen and pert waist will more than account for your bland, featureless excuse for a face.
So it's not too much for my lump of a body to handle and I don't look like any more of a tool than usual. It requires no special equipment and you are not even required to change your clothes. But walking in a city? Walking alone? Walking without the vaguest hint of a destination?
"We all knew you were a bit of a sad bastard Jamie, but surely this is the cherry on the cake baked specially to commemorate your receiving the award for 'Saddest Bastard of the 21st Century', surely."
Well, walking is actually thoroughly enjoyable... but not without its perils.
Edinburgh boasts, like many other major cities in the U.K., magnificent open spaces within and above the hustle and bustle of city life. A particular favourite spot of mine is the top of Carlton Hill. Here one is presented with a stunning panorama of Edinburgh with views of sea, mountain, pasture and a living collage of urban prosperity and decay powered by the broiling individual passions and woes of its oblivious inhabitants. Open green spaces curve down into the eclectic architectural mix that heaves and stretches like the back of some magnificent whale. One can also admire the unfinished replica of the Parthenon, planned as a timeless symbol of Edinburgh's academic and philosophical eminence within the British Empire. The metaphor I used to describe the mental and spiritual effect of walking is brought vividly to life in all its realism at this, the highest "urban" point of the nation's capital. One bursts through the haze of city life into a still world of reflection. The Greek Revival buildings visible all around are not only monuments to the past greatness of a city, of an age of writers, artists and philosophers never to be repeated; they are a lasting testament to the reviving qualities of the place itself. They stand as solemn guardians of the simple fact that it is always possible to instigate a revival: national, international or personal. Let these structures be the icons of your own inner Renaissance.
Of course, you may be thinking that all this nonsense has little to do with walking. You may be seething with irritation at my insistence on insisting that these wonderful structures are imbued with such astounding properties solely by your having walked to see them. That is your problem. I guarantee that driving up to the car park and getting out to stretch your legs will leave you unsatisfied. You will doubtlessly feel that, like a prostitute, you have sold yourself out to the bloated executives of the Ford corporation or BMW and that, in doing so, you have robbed yourself of the pleasure of a simple, instinctual human experience.
The way I see it is that walking gives you the opportunity to, without even noticing, alter your perceptons not only of your own life but of those individuals around you. Suddenly you will wonder what story lies behind the solitary elderly gentleman gazing out silently and soberly towards Portobello. Your interest will be awakened to the presence of the young couple strolling across the plateau, their joined hands swinging contentedly between them.
Of course if you find yourself unable to set your bearings for an area of tranquil beauty then the High Street is just as good. Although there is always the risk of being stuck behind some meandering woman with a backside the breadth of East Anglia. This woman will insist on countering any effort made by you to nip round her ample form by subtly shifting in the direction of whatever city-bypass you are using to do so. But I have a solution!
Today I found myself behind a... "working class rogue" we shall call him. This gentleman barreled his way through crowds like some track-suited steam locomotive. I simply made sure to remain as directly in his wake as possible and was spared the awkwardness of squeezing my delicate form through masses of disgruntled pedestrians.
I think I have addressed all the problems I raised about walking and in a more thoughtful and considered way than is the norm for this Blog. Oh! No, I haven't. But it's simple. If you think walking on your own is boring...bring a friend. Or do as I do and just make sure to charge your iPod before embarking on any sort of bipedal adventure.
Wagner or Kelly Jones make for more interesting company anyway.
Jamie.
I'm not well known as an athlete. Despite repeated suggestions from friends to join the school rugby team and secretly wishing in my heart of hearts that I possessed the bodily coordination necessary to wield a tennis racket or cricket bat I never really subscribed to the concept of sport. P.E. was, for me, just a few hours in the week during which I could wantonly display my gross ineptitude. Awkward shuffling on the basketball court, meek attempts to convince the teacher I was actually trying, these were my specialties. Admittedly I was actually quite good at table-tennis. The Forrest Gump inside me forced its way to the surface on a number of occasions. But table-tennis is not (and probably never has been AND probably never will be) really seen as a sport. It's an activity. It's like golf. Chess. Pottery.
When I was younger I was quite small. I should emphasize that I mean when I was much younger. Before being ravaged by the monstrous hormonal rapist that is puberty I was a small, scrawny and generally pitiful child. Once nature started to mould me unceremoniously in her gnarled hands (probably on crack at the time judging by how I turned out) I started to grow. I was, at the age of thirteen or fourteen, exactly the same...but stretched obscenely. At this time I could eat what I wanted, do what I wanted and never an ounce would loiter 'pon the biological street-corner of my skeletal form. This was fine by me, naturally.
Now, five or six years down the line I have essentially stopped growing, three or four inches taller than the average man I believe. Statistics may have changed since my height was last measured by a doctor. I wish I could break the six feet barrier, but I'm stuck in the limbo of 5' 11". Nothing wrong with that. My fellow members of the "frustratingly close to six feet but not quite" club include Dylan Moran, Alan Davies, zombie-faced Boris Karloff, Gene Clark, David Hyde Pierce, Eric Idle and Ian McKellen. Not a bad bunch of people to be the same height as. Although Boris Karloff has probably decayed to a much more modest size by now...
So I have no real qualms about my height. Just as well given that it is not a parameter which I can alter. It is simply that as I have stopped growing it is inevitable that my unsavoury lifestyle will catch up on me and alter my other dimensions. How do I go about resolving this impending disaster? I am unable to exercise in the context of a team due to my phenomenal lack of skill. The sight of me running would be like the gentle caress of red-hot tongs to the unwitting eyes of observers. I don't want anyone to see the appalling vision of my disproportionate limbs flapping about all over the place as I gambol my way through the streets and parks of Edinburgh. There is already enough suffering in this world of ours without such vile misfortune being heaped upon innocent Edinburgers.
What to do? What in God's name should one such as myself do to ward off the looming figure of future-Jamie leering at me from the bathroom mirror, all bulging stomach and wide buttocks, all quivering bingo-wings and dancing jowels.
Well, dudes and ladies, the exercise I have taken up is...
...walking!!!
I know what you're thinking. "Walking doesn't deserve three exclamation marks!" "Such gratuitous abuse of the conventions of punctuation!" "I have half a mind to gouge exclamation marks into your chest while you sleep!"
Those of you with a firmer grip on reality will probably be wondering why anyone would go walking. Alone. Especially someone who lives in inner-city Edinburgh. Well prepare for your doubts to be blown away in the cleansing wind of my Blog entry!!! (I have essentially spent the last seven or eight paragraphs building up to this. Don't ever say that when I make things up to you, I don't make them up to you GOOD AND PROPER.)
A brisk walk is, as any decent doctor will tell you, one of the most beneficial forms of personal exercise possible. For me though, it transcends the realms of mere physical exertion and assumes a seat somewhere in the billowing clouds of mental and spiritual well-being.
Walking is surprisingly versatile. You can set your own level, from power-walking (not my personal favourite as even the most beautiful, graceful person looks an arse...Emily Blunt couldn't even pull it off...) all the way through the spectrum to a gentle stroll. Walking is generally, I think, aerobic. It involves mild physical exertion over an extended period of time, unlike weight lifting or the like (anaerobic) which are generally done in short bursts (and short shorts). Walking is brilliant for toning the muscles. You can feel it. An hour's walk will leave your stomach notably firmer. This will fade after a while but regular walks will increase the lasting time of your beautiful, trim stomach until it attains permanence. Then you can "hit the clubs" and "go on the pull", satisfied with the knowledge that your elegant abdomen and pert waist will more than account for your bland, featureless excuse for a face.
So it's not too much for my lump of a body to handle and I don't look like any more of a tool than usual. It requires no special equipment and you are not even required to change your clothes. But walking in a city? Walking alone? Walking without the vaguest hint of a destination?
"We all knew you were a bit of a sad bastard Jamie, but surely this is the cherry on the cake baked specially to commemorate your receiving the award for 'Saddest Bastard of the 21st Century', surely."
Well, walking is actually thoroughly enjoyable... but not without its perils.
Edinburgh boasts, like many other major cities in the U.K., magnificent open spaces within and above the hustle and bustle of city life. A particular favourite spot of mine is the top of Carlton Hill. Here one is presented with a stunning panorama of Edinburgh with views of sea, mountain, pasture and a living collage of urban prosperity and decay powered by the broiling individual passions and woes of its oblivious inhabitants. Open green spaces curve down into the eclectic architectural mix that heaves and stretches like the back of some magnificent whale. One can also admire the unfinished replica of the Parthenon, planned as a timeless symbol of Edinburgh's academic and philosophical eminence within the British Empire. The metaphor I used to describe the mental and spiritual effect of walking is brought vividly to life in all its realism at this, the highest "urban" point of the nation's capital. One bursts through the haze of city life into a still world of reflection. The Greek Revival buildings visible all around are not only monuments to the past greatness of a city, of an age of writers, artists and philosophers never to be repeated; they are a lasting testament to the reviving qualities of the place itself. They stand as solemn guardians of the simple fact that it is always possible to instigate a revival: national, international or personal. Let these structures be the icons of your own inner Renaissance.
Of course, you may be thinking that all this nonsense has little to do with walking. You may be seething with irritation at my insistence on insisting that these wonderful structures are imbued with such astounding properties solely by your having walked to see them. That is your problem. I guarantee that driving up to the car park and getting out to stretch your legs will leave you unsatisfied. You will doubtlessly feel that, like a prostitute, you have sold yourself out to the bloated executives of the Ford corporation or BMW and that, in doing so, you have robbed yourself of the pleasure of a simple, instinctual human experience.
The way I see it is that walking gives you the opportunity to, without even noticing, alter your perceptons not only of your own life but of those individuals around you. Suddenly you will wonder what story lies behind the solitary elderly gentleman gazing out silently and soberly towards Portobello. Your interest will be awakened to the presence of the young couple strolling across the plateau, their joined hands swinging contentedly between them.
Of course if you find yourself unable to set your bearings for an area of tranquil beauty then the High Street is just as good. Although there is always the risk of being stuck behind some meandering woman with a backside the breadth of East Anglia. This woman will insist on countering any effort made by you to nip round her ample form by subtly shifting in the direction of whatever city-bypass you are using to do so. But I have a solution!
Today I found myself behind a... "working class rogue" we shall call him. This gentleman barreled his way through crowds like some track-suited steam locomotive. I simply made sure to remain as directly in his wake as possible and was spared the awkwardness of squeezing my delicate form through masses of disgruntled pedestrians.
I think I have addressed all the problems I raised about walking and in a more thoughtful and considered way than is the norm for this Blog. Oh! No, I haven't. But it's simple. If you think walking on your own is boring...bring a friend. Or do as I do and just make sure to charge your iPod before embarking on any sort of bipedal adventure.
Wagner or Kelly Jones make for more interesting company anyway.
Jamie.
No comments:
Post a Comment