Smellmycheese's Blog

Posts Tagged ‘obesity

This weekend I came to the realisation that walking five minutes to and from work every day does not constitute proper ‘exercise’ and that sweating because your email’s down again, the internet has decided to have a little sleep or you’re faced with the fail whale (one for all you twitter lovers out there) for the 50th time in as many minutes, does not mean you’re doing a ‘work out’.

I came to this realisation because I attended the wedding of two old school friends – the ideal breeding ground for many a Bridget Jones-esque blog post on the joys of being two years off 30 and having NOTHING. [That's not true, I don't have nothing, I've got a Bagpuss hot water bottle cover that acts as a fairly good substitute for human affection on those cold, lonely nights.]

But those posts are for another time (something to look forward to, sure you’ll agree), back to the original ‘point’: I came to the realisation that I need to start moving my arse further than the front door, five minutes down the road to work and then back again (with the occasional added foray to the supermarket in-between the two) when I managed to break* both my calves during a spot of Kaylee dancing.


For those unaccustomed to this particular genre of dance, Kaylee is also spelt Ceilidh and is basically like a massive version of the Hokey Cokey, but with a load more dance moves thrown in and a man with a beard who talks you through the moves at the beginning of each dance only for everyone to instantly forget them and revert to running round in circles in pairs and lolloping into the middle of the room like disabled, geriatric cows, trying not to bump into one another.

By ‘everyone’, I mainly mean me. Also the man with the beard probably isn’t compulsory; a lady with or without a beard could do the job just as well, I’m sure. Facial hair and/or genital persuasion didn’t appear to be essential for the role.

Anyhoo… five minutes into the first of these dances, various nerves twinged and snapped (probably) in both my calves. Obviously I couldn’t stop dancing and go and sit down, thus admitting I’d strained my leg muscles because I never fucking use them. I’M 28 FOR GOD’S SAKE. So on I carried, like the trooper I am. At this stage, my mouth had decided to run out of saliva and my lips were stuck to my gums, so it was a pretty attractive package all round for the poor sod lumbered with me as his dancing partner (and here, we can read ‘ dancing’ as ‘limping, gummy, sweaty mess’).

As a result of which, for the past two days I’ve been walking as though I’ve shat myself.

And no one wants that.

Thus the moral of this tale is: you don’t have to be obese to be a sweaty, unfit mess, you just have to be lazy as hell.

*break/strain… whatever.

I took a trip to the cinema recently and it reminded me why I hate people.

When I say ‘people’, I don’t mean me. And I don’t mean you, if I like you. (If I don’t like you, I definitely do mean you). No, I mean the ‘general public’.

Before we get into why people are rubbish however, I’d like to address the issue of why cinemas themselves are rubbish. Beginning with the fact that there is nothing to drink for under £2.50. Nothing, that is, other than tap water from the urine stained toilets or cartons of juice, which are about £1.80 and, on this occasion, had sold out. Naturally.

The only other place to get a drink from at this time was the Starbucks across the road, which, as we all know, charges approximately eighteen pounds for some Kenco tarted up with syrup and served by alternative student types who are smiley and ‘happy’, presumably in some sort of an ironic fashion.

The handy thing was that it was around thirty five degrees Celsius in the cinema, seemingly in order to speed up the spreading of as many different types of cough and cold virus as possible. As a result, I was forced to buy an overpriced drink. But you can’t beat me that easily. I purchased a small Diet Coke, with no ice. Thus maximising liquid to cash ratio. Hell yeah, sticking it to the man.

After all that slowly sipped small Diet Coke, the inevitable happened: I instantly needed the toilet. Which were located a corridor and two flights of stairs away. How convenient. Seriously, can these places not cater for those, such as myself, who are cursed with the bladder capacity of a pensioner? And indeed, pensioners themselves! Although, you never really see old dears at the flicks do you? Why is that? Maybe it all went downhill once ‘talkies’ were introduced.

Actually, after seeing The Ugly Truth not so long ago, I’m almost inclined to agree.

The Ugly Truth is a Gerard Butler/Katherine Heigl film and literally one of the worst things I have ever done with my eyes. Buy it on DVD for someone you really hate or watch it if you’re bored of your brain and want to kill it slowly with terrible acting, shit stereotypes, crap clichés and horrendous dialogue.

The Ugly Truth about this film is that it will make you wish you had been born without eyes, ears, a brain or nose (just in case you can smell how shit it is).

Anyway, I digress. Back to why I hate some other stuff.

Oh yes: very overweight child eating various packets of noisy food ALL the way through the film. What a marvellous way to occupy your obese infant; give him several packets of junk food to ‘keep him going’ for a strenuous two hours of sitting.

I’m being terribly judgemental of course. For all I know, they could have been off to a badminton class afterwards. Or KFC.

The man three seats away from me was a particular joy too. The way his phone kept lighting up like a fun little torch when he checked it for texts every fifteen minutes really added to the plot of the film and enhanced my viewing experience no end.

His too, I would imagine. What better way to really get involved in a film that you’ve paid nine pounds, yes, that’s NINE English pounds, to see, than by texting your friends all the way through it?

All of these factors conspired to bring me to the realisation that the cinema has the potential to be a very stressful place for a person like me. If someone so much as touches my chair or whispers too loudly, that’s it.  I’m then on edge, waiting for them to do it again, totally distracted  from the film.

Quite what the answer to this is, I don’t know. I could watch DVDs from now on and never go to the cinema again. Or I could not let other people bother me…

Obviously what I’ll actually do is carry on getting very annoyed at people and life and let all the irritation build up inside like a healthy volcano of rage until I explode and suffocate someone with their own Haribo Tangfastics.


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