Gym Suédoise.

This is the exact spot!

In keeping with my decision to embrace new experiences, I recently (and reluctantly) attended a Swedish Gym class. For those that don’t know it, the best way I can think to describe it is like a hybrid of circuits, aerobics and dancing which I’m sure you’ll agree, is not the greatest combination of activities for someone with zero coordination and a general lack of ability to move gracefully. So my reluctance to attend didn’t stem from the thought of exercise, rather, a fear of looking like a twat. However, with one sentence, I was swiftly reminded, “You are a twat”. How could I forget such a definitive part of my personality? My inner twat. Either way I had no reasonable excuse not to go. So I donned my tatty off-white football shorts, threw on an old shapeless t-shirt and some grubby converse and prepared to get moving. Indeed, I looked like a twat.

Unfortunately for me, it is summer and so this was to be an outdoor Swedish gym session held in one of the many parks dotted around Paris. This meant of course, that not only would I be dressed like a knob’ead whilst making a fool of myself, I’d be doing it in full view of the Parisian public. Brilliant. I tried to stay positive by busying my mind with thoughts of French female buttocks in tight lycra flexing and stretching (which happened to remind me of a video explaining the benefits of a good work out by the way), but this proved futile; I was sure my experience would be horrible.

The class was a fair old size, maybe around 60 people in total, with exactly none of them possessing the sort of buttocks I had previously been daydreaming about I might add. I was surprised to see that there were also a few blokes dotted around as well, all equally poorly dresses as myself (and apparently all equally disappointed at the lack of lycra clad buns on show). The group arranged itself in a circle around the needlessly toned instructor, his bronzed body only serving to make his greying hair appear silver and precious under the sun. It was his crown, and it declared him our leader. The fact that we were all stood in a circle not only gave the impression that we were all here to worship this Swedish Godlike figure before us  (ironic eh??), but also meant that it wasn’t just those next to me that could see how useless I am. Everyone in the circle (and park for that matter) would soon see me floundering around with about as much grace as Anne Widdecombe trying to shave her own arse.

Sure enough, within the first 10 minutes, whilst trying to emulate the instructor’s can-can-esque movements to some bizarre euro dance track, an old woman to my left started sniggering. Now I didn’t expect to be good at this Swedish gym malarkey, but I certainly wasn’t prepared to be ridiculed by some fat hag who has to draw on her own bloody eye brows. Worse still, she didn’t even try to conceal her amusement – it was as blatant as the day is long. Even my “gym buddy” had to stop exercising due to laughter. Surely they could have at least laughed behind my back so I didn’t notice. Is that not the polite thing to do?? 

“Well”, I thought, “Bugger this.” I wasn’t there to have the piss taken out of me! I decided to ignore their jibes and commit myself to every kick, punch and star jump - their laughter was my fuel. I was thrusting my arms and legs with a renewed vigour – I’d show these heartless Frenchies what good old English mettle is. The rest of the session was a bit of a blur as I sweated and puffed my way to the moral high ground. I know the instructor was impressed by my commitment – he probably saw a bit of himself in me. I tackled all that was thrown at me; crunches, push ups, all manner of stretches and dance moves, running, jumping... the list goes on. Sure, it was ugly, but it was triumphant.

It was during the warm down though, that I couldn’t help but notice the aforementioned fat hag. My oh my was she a mess; barely able to stand, soaked with sweat and panting like a tired dog. Even her silly little eyebrows were smudged! I was thrilled. I had triumphed over hilarity adversity while she was but a shell of her former arrogant and giggly self. But I am an English man; moral, humble and polite. I believe that one must be gracious in victory as well as defeat and so rather than laugh at and point out the failings of the pitiful and hunched frame before me, I simply walked past silently with my head held high. I would not and did not highlight her feebleness or mock her inadequacy for the Swedish gym... 

... Not to her face anyway. I had a bloody good laugh at her behind her back on the walk home instead! In fact I believe it was Hunter S. Thompson offered these words of great pertinence:

“For every moment of triumph, for every instance of beauty, many souls must be trampled”. 

Well, consider yourself trampled you old boot!

Same time next week?