The Body Beautiful

As soon as I finish this, I am off to the gym. I try to go three times a week and on each occasion spend about an hour, divided evenly between cardio and weights. I am not a fitness freak. If I were I would probably be down there more often and for longer, and the results would be demonstrably (and visibly) better. Nevertheless, I do have the capacity to kid myself that I am doing some good to and for my body. In reality, I am likely doing more for my mind by imposing a little bit of discipline in my life.
That aside, there are other benefits to going to my particular gym. It is not large, yet it is never over-crowded. There is no waiting for any of the equipment and, mercifully and relative to my previous gym, nobody abusing the equipment by using it as a convenient seat on which to read and write texts or gossip.
Also, unlike my previous gym, the staff are young, knowledgeable and friendly. Apart from the young part, so are the patrons. Given the age of many of the patrons, including myself, it is comforting to see the defibrillator in the corner. I hope that there is also someone who knows how to use it.
Which brings me to Les Mills.
Yesterday at Les Mills’ Victoria Street (Auckland) gym a 28 year-old man collapsed during a BodyPump session. I do not know what BodyPump is but I understand from the Herald report that it is reasonably strenuous and involves medium to light weights.
The female instructor and three other staff from the gym immediately went to the man’s aid. An ambulance was called (by a patron). One staff member stayed with the man until the ambulance arrived 25 minutes later, and the instructor resumed her class/session.
Rider alert: I was not there, I do not know exactly what happened, and I am relying on the Herald report.
Two questions: should the instructor have immediately resumed the session? No practical reason why not, I guess, except I think the decent thing to do would have been to call off that session, or at least delay its resumption until emergency staff were on the scene and a proper assessment of the man’s condition had been made. I am not alone with that thought. The Herald reports that some at the scene also had that view, and a spokesperson for Les Mills admits the class should have been stopped and health and safety processes were not followed. Am I wrong in perhaps drawing the conclusion that this instructor and perhaps some of her Les Mills class are so self-obsessed that nothing, but nothing, gets in the way of their workout?
The second question is why it took an ambulance 25 minutes to get there. Their station is just up the road. Twenty-five minutes seems an inordinately long time. I would hope for better if I collapse at the gym—with or without the defibrillator.
Anyway, that is my gripe, it is at an end, and I have met my self-imposed challenge.
My challenge was that this week—of all weeks—I could write an entire Fryday without mentioning Fifty Shades of Grey…oops! Bugger!

It's Just Not Cricket

Did you see it? A surprisingly large number of sports commentators apparently didn’t. Or perhaps they did see it, but won’t admit to seeing it, so that they don’t have to talk about it.
I am talking about the ICC Cricket World Cup Opening Ceremony miss-performed in Christchurch last night. In my view, and in retrospect God knows why I viewed it, it was New Zealand’s most cringe-inducing television travesty since Ernie Leonard’s and Glyn Tucker’s Club Show in 1979.  The two-hour plus show was amateurish, patronising, ill conceived and, largely, irrelevant. Okay, so why does this upset me? Does it matter that I am upset. Probably not. Except that if it was, as hyped, seen by one billion viewers world-wide (which I seriously doubt) it was unacceptable as a representation of this country. And, long after I thought we as a people had got long beyond this, we were dumbed-down, patronised and presented with an immaturity not seen on television since the hideous days of the 80s. Some specific points:
·      The pre-show opened with a Sri Lankan dance troupe, hardly representative of this country and about as visually striking as Gerry Brownlie performing the Time Warp.
·      The next “act” was a Bollywood dance troupe featuring front and centre an overweight New Zealand blonde woman whose midriff was the only thing wobbling in time with the music.
·      We were then treated to some nondescript female singer, and a song that’s sole raison d'être appeared to be that it was written in Christchurch and sung originally by Christine Aquilera. Who cares?
·      All of the presenters read off hand-held cue cards. Very head-boy’s speech from our secondary school days of the 80s. Couldn’t they have learnt their lines, or at least been cued through their earpieces. Where was the technology?
·      Jeremy Wells? Really?
·      The interminable references to the Christchurch earthquakes. Can we have nothing in Christchurch these days that does not mention them? Sorry, but—please—let’s move on and stop patronising that city.
·      Tall towers like some medieval siege machines, each representing one of the New Zealand playing venues and each having a New Zealand sporting “celebrity” on top of it. The Hawkes Bay celebrity: “Not a lot of people know that Napier has the National Aquarium where you can see lots of fish” and Canterbury cricket legend Chris Harris on top of the Eden Park tower? WTF?
·      Bringing out our Prime Minister as the extra man to play backyard cricket. He looked uncomfortable. We were uncomfortable. And this from a country that has a seat on the Security Council. Seriously?
·      Sir Richard Hadlee trying to look good-humoured and fun-filled, rather than the grumpy old curmudgeon he really is.
·      The Richie McCaw, Stephen Fleming high five fail. All over the news this morning.
I could go on. But won’t. Let’s just get on with the cricket.
And let’s leave it with a positive. Two positives. Just to prove that I am not too a grumpy old curmudgeon. Sole Mio was great (predictably) and Australia’s ceremony was worse. Way worse.

Shine a Light

I like to leave my office light on when I am having sex. I am not in the office, but it is deeply comforting to know that I can reach my computer safely if, as often happens in the midst of coitus, I have an idea for a new book or article. Therefore, I can understand the Christchurch couple leaving the light on while they had unbridled sex in their employers’ office (sex with a bridle is also—well—quite interesting). Theirs was a pragmatic view. As well as a voyeuristic one for pub patrons across the road, many of whom apparently qualify as cellphone Spielbergs. The couple should be applauded, as they no doubt were by said patrons. They provided a public service, not only in showing a commendable attention to safety commensurate with an OSH award, but also demonstrating that sex in the office has returned after a corporate foray into  “work hard, play…not all” and, in this case, providing a visible manifestation that yes indeed insurance does have a passionate side. Who knew? Of course, there is a rider. There is a downside to this. One of the two was married. Our tolerance of such behaviour does have boundaries. Moreover, Fryday says to that couple from Christchurch that you too should have boundaries and keep within them. Because, beyond those boundaries, lay despair, depravity and decadence, or, as some call it, Hamilton.