Not that anyone I tell about this cares, but I've taken to rock climbing over the past few months. I finally feel as though I’ve found my sport, but, as I mentioned a while back, it's a sport reserved for a very special brand of humourless dork, so I don't feel I really fit in at the local climbing club.
One example of this was a few weeks back when I remarked to a fellow climber how much one of the climbing 'volumes' on the wall looked like a giant Picasso-esque vagina, but he just stared at me as if he’d caught me licking his dog.
I also never understood why these nerds have to spend thirty minutes doing ridiculous warm-up exercises. Do you see He-Man doing some homo squat thrusts before kicking Twistoid in the ball-sack?
Anyways, my climbing skills have progressed enough for me to try stuff outside of the club, away from the nerds.
If you live in London you might have seen the Shoreditch Boulder? If you haven't, it's basically a big rock in the middle of a park that you can climb on. I turned up last weekend, got my pot belly out for the
"John, John. Listen: this part is literally teaming with negative energy."
"You're right, Valerie, but Ken picked up on some POSITIVE energy on the other side of the boulder, so we're dealing with something pret-ty major here."
If the rock could actually talk, I can only assume it would tell them that sixty-two year-old virgins are Nature’s way of saying “give up.”
So, after Ken suggested they all go back to his to listen to his collection of yawns, I got to climbing.
After ten minutes my hands looked as if they had been dipped into a bucket of cold sores. And my arms. Jesus God, my arms. I actually woke later that night in spasms of pain. I thought I was having a double heart attack. I’ve never paid any attention to “Sport Scientists” before, simply because that is what stupid people that manage to get into university become, but they might have a point about stretching before rigorous exercise.
So, this evening I will return to the local climbing club. I won’t make any fanny jokes and I will take my warm up session very seriously. I will not moan when the colony of herpes on my hands begins to bleed and I will go home and do any crying into the muffled humility of my pillow.