Last night I, along with 500 other men, women and children, completed a 3-hour Zumbathon for Children in Need. Now usually I just pop a tenner in an envelope or send a text while I’m slumped on the couch watching some boy band perform this year’s Children in Need song, but this year was different.
How Zumba ended my 20-year love affair with Cher
I hate exercise. I really do. I am a member of a gym that I hate going to. It’s filled with gym fascists, like the gang of twenty-something blokes who hog the weight machines or who congregate around the pull-up equipment with their bulging muscles trying to outdo each other with their pull-themselves-up-ability and the tininess of their vests.
The girls are no better. They usually appear in twos or threes in their Juicy Couture tracksuit bottoms, g-strings, tiny vests and of course the obligatory tattoo which I believe in some quarters is referred to as a tramp stamp. They carry 50cl bottles of Volvic and do very little in the way of an actual workout – it would ruin the carefully applied layers of make-up – but they do a lot of giggling when the boys in their vests do their pull-up exercises. Continue reading