in an invisible man-trap, my tongue looks like a mink stole and Im sweating like a whore in church.Im told its perfectly normal part of the detoxification process. I cant grasp the logic of this. How do the toxins know youve gone on the wagon? Why should
chrome and mirrors and black leatherette, it’s like something Damian Hirst might have dreamed after visiting a bondage club, then eating cheese too late at night. There are no weights – just rows of diabolical machines, each wringing sweat and moans from
per cent humidity reduced my pace to a sweat-sodden slouch. The road wound up from the coast, through canyons hewn from ancient corals and draped with curtains of vines. Ten minutes on this modest little hill and I was gasping. My legs were cast from
and shorts. Also, notwithstanding the gleaming equipment, the designer leotards and the bucketfuls of righteous sweat, one wonders – well – what’s the point of it all?It’s like watching a regiment of crack commandos bashing their heads against a brick wall
’t broken a sweat since their last council tax demand simultaneously challenged each other to run from Greenwich to Westminster.What in God’s name can have possessed them? Artificial bravado, of course, induced by mild alcoholic poisoning. That
that I’d written The Lord Of The Rings – but when I woke up, I realised I’d only been Tolkien in my sleep.Then last night, I dreamed I was lying on my back in a shabby hotel room, staring as a slow fan churned through a tepid soup of sweat and stale air
. The sweat trickled into my eyes, and I found myself envying Alex his shades and bandanna. God, perhaps I was turning gay? Everybody else on the beach seemed to be. Except Ken, I supposed – and then again…Venice is nicknamed Muscle Beach on account
