The gym is not for fat people.

I was recently told of an instance when someone I know expressed their intention to go to the gym and was met with the comment ‘But you’re not in shape.’ This, counteracted with the somewhat obvious statement that that was why they were intending to go, was then rounded off like a perfectly toned bicep with the observation that ‘Yeah, but there are some things you start at home.’

As a recent convert to the gym, and the concept of giving a damn about the state of my body, it is exactly this attitude that terrifies me.
I am not in shape; I want to get in to shape. The equipment at the gym allows me to facilitate this.
I’m not exactly at my most attractive when working out, and let’s be honest, I’m not entirely comfortable being seen in public in my jogging bottoms and baggy t-shirt (I don't claim to understand those who relish wearing skin tight lycra when undertaking physical assertion) so when I’m bright red, sweaty and out of breath having pushed myself that bit further and spent longer than I ever have on the rowing machine I don’t really want to be confronted with bronzed, slim, already-perfect looking people going hell for leather on cross trainers without so much as a bead of sweat on their foreheads, and it would seemingly stand to reason that they probably don’t want to see me either. (Although, I promise fat isn’t contagious)

The gym is designed for fitness, so if you want to get fit, you go to the gym, but in all media, film and television representations the gym is full of already fit people ‘simply’ (I know, I know) maintaining their perfect physiques, which is fine, but also pretty damn daunting for people who look like, well, me. I go to a gym within a leisure centre in the South Wales valleys that costs me a couple of quid each time I go, and I’m lucky enough to be met with a nice mix of people and fitness levels whenever I go, but I must admit to being ashamed of my body in the state it is currently in.

Perhaps it says something about me that it would never even cross my mind that an onlooker might view me positively, in that I’m actually doing something about my health, rather it strikes me that, in my head at least, the fitter gym users are of the same opinion as the aforementioned home bird, and probably use my physique as motivation to keep-up the hard work lest they become like me.

Whatever it is that makes me breathe a sigh of relief when I step in to an empty fitness suite, I’m just glad that I’ve started to overcome the inner demons that tell me I don’t belong there, and hopefully after our Summer of sporting achievement, others will start to do the same, because when it comes down to it, it’s just a room where people go to make themselves feel better, whatever that may mean to each individual, and no-one should have to feel like they should be hidden away at home; size 8 or 28.
The gym is not for fat people; it's for people.

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Sunshine, Lollipops & Satire

So it's been unseasonably sunny recently and I've managed to spend 98% of this time inside writing to various academic and also non-scholarly deadlines.
In light of this, it would be awfully nice if you could to take the time to peruse the latest issue of Exposed, paying particular attention to page 8 should you be so inclined, just so that the onset of rickets has not been in vain.

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Heart-felt

A little something I penned under the brief of: Heart.

Take Heart

I write from the heart.

I take things to heart.

I’ve experienced things that have broken my heart, but I still continue to put my heart and soul in to the things I love. 

In short: my heart has a lot to answer for.

The heart is a mystical phenomenon charged with making the most important of decisions, and leading us in to battle against even our own heads. People in difficulty are told to take heart, have a heart; look inside their hearts. That’s an awful lot of responsibility for one organ, let alone its actual, literal job of pumping blood around our bodies. I mean, I can confidently say the liver isn’t pulling its weight in the field of abstract thought processes, and as for the pancreas? Don’t even get me started.

The heart has become a poetic device; a metaphor for love, and for life. The heart assumes the form of a childhood friend; someone that has known you so long they appear to know you better than you know yourself. Of course the heart is deeply embedded in the physical human form, but it also seems to have taken on the same transcendental qualities of the soul. Like a heart itself in transplant, the heart’s abstract form is taken as being separate from our other thought processes, and blamed for inopportune emotions and feelings in our otherwise autonomous bodies.

How dare we.

Our hearts provide us with life itself, yet we continue to place excess demands upon them, and expect of them, in ways that, should they manifest literally against our own actual selves, would constitute both physical and emotional abuse. The heart is in a constant state of providing, and true to human form, all we want is more. We are all familiar with resting our weary heads, but the heart silently soldiers on, through every long, arduous day, and dark, cold night without even so much as a tea break, let alone a thank you.

So next time you become aware of the pulsing beneath your skin, of the very lifeblood that courses through your veins, take the time to appreciate where it’s coming from, and just have a little heart.

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Misogyny Rules!

In light of the closure of UniLad, here's an article I wrote for the esteemed people at Exposed Magazine about how to treat the fairer sex...

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Channel Hopping

So, I wrote a piece about my different emotional responses to the prospect of moving abroad for a year, and the lovely people over at Opinion Panel have published it in their community blogging section.
As plenty of time has now passed I've also included said article here, so, enjoy!

Now don’t get me wrong, I was fully aware when I signed up for this French degree that I was going to be spending a year abroad in France, with people who speak it all the time, think in it, dream in it, and have done since it was their first word, but now it’s a matter of months away it’s all sort of hitting me. Right in the face. Like a giant baguette. The prospect of travelling to a foreign country is filled with promise and excitement, but the concept of actually moving there, on my own, for an entire year, is tainted brown with more than a little terror.
I’ve studied French for more years than I actually care to remember, and there is now an entire French section on my bookshelves, filled with everything from Madame Bovary, to L’Histoire de France Pour Les Nuls, but that alone is just not going to cut it. It’s possible to read about and study something to within an inch of its entire concept, but in reality the leap from page to practice is a giant one.

Tell anyone you study a language at any level, and they will immediately regale you with a (mercifully) potted history of their entire experience of any language ever, and then expect you to know the answer to any and every obscure conjugation question they’ve ever pretended to care about. And that’s before producing some member of their family who just so happens to be visiting from France/Germany/Spain/Lithuania (delete as appropriate) and would simply love to converse with you at such a level of fluency, and such a frequency of words, that only a particularly adept foreign dog could respond with any level of coherence or sense. Simply put; I’ve been researching the characteristics of selective mutism, just in case. I’m of course aware that thousands of University students go abroad every single year, and more importantly come back alive, but it hasn’t stopped me wincing at the merest whiff of garlic, and having pre-emptive flashbacks at the briefest sight of stripy-chested men on bicycles with strings of onion round their necks. (More common in South-Westerly England than you might think).

As inevitable as the tides, I will go, I will survive, maybe even excel, and then I will return, with a wealth of self-discovery and personal growth under my belt, and an acquired taste for escargots. In spite of the fact I made it this far without a snail joke, (remarkable, I know) you may have noticed that I’m still trying not to take the inevitable too seriously, in the vain hope that I can laugh my way across the channel in as smooth, and calm a motion as possible, to avoid spending the next year sat in a corner rocking back and forth muttering the Marseillaise in order to try and fit in.

I’ll be fine; I know. It’s going to be an incredible year of discovery and fulfilment, just with the subtitles switched off, and the capacity for living cranked all the way up to 11. Oh, and if I do in fact fall flat on my visage, it is only a matter of 12 months, 52 weeks, or even 365 days, and when it’s all over I can come crawling back to this fair isle; tail between my legs and yesterday’s frog legs still between my teeth.

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Paddon Award Entry

This is my entry to the Paddon Award, in association with the University of Exeter, under the brief "Your Exeter, Your University."
Edit: I wasn't shortlisted, but I'm still proud of the piece, and still feel very strongly about the brief, and Exeter itself, so please keep reading it.

My Exeter, My University, My Home

“Oh Exeter, is wonderful.”

At first it seems strange that what was introduced to me as a fiercely proud football chant should so acutely and accurately sum up my feelings towards this outstanding institution, especially as an avid avoider of almost all things sporting, but then it occurs to me how much my eyes, mind and heart have been opened to so many new experiences in my time here, and it almost seems fitting.

On an entirely superficial level the sheer, breath-taking beauty of both campus and the surrounding city inspire me on an almost daily basis, but the true impact of such accessible splendour runs far deeper. The seamless, constant harmony of pastures new, and old stomping grounds; the constant revolution of new souls, new prospects, and entire futures, with the University a hub of innovation and creativity that stands proudly above the skyline; a beacon of past, present and future in perfect equilibrium. Even on the greyest of Devon days this most extraordinary of places shimmers with possibility, and the constant hum of innovation and progression can always be heard, if you just take the time to stop and listen.

The notion of taking an institution to your heart, of feeling like you belong, seems at best a superficial one, but I can honestly say that Exeter and its essence of strength now pulse through my veins. As the Exe ebbs and flows, so university life meanders through highs, lows and extremes of existence, but the constant comfort of inevitable tidal regularity and stability, like that of the pillar of strength and celebrated creativity that is this institution, even in the darkest of times shines the light of guidance and reassurance in to all corners of life, perhaps most notably as a string of lights in the shape of a Christmas tree atop the physics building during the festive season.

The life-blood of regeneration undulates throughout this city, but it never seeks to wash away those people and things that it has already encountered. I know that I will always feel welcome here, as those who have already moved on do, and that in the inevitable story of my life, the chapter marked Exeter will be a full and vibrant one. That said, should the opportunity to plant roots here present itself, I shall be the first with wellies on, pitchfork in one hand, needle and thread in the other, ready to weave my story in to the tapestry of Exeter life.

Within this, the most communal and supportive of settings, I have been able to spread my proverbial wings, find my feet, and fulfil an entire plethora of clichés, all associated with starting the next stage of life after flying the nest. Clichés would not become clichéd if they weren’t true, in the same way that the intense passion and fondness for the University displayed by Exeter students and its alumni can of course be found within the pages of a prospectus, but also eavesdropped from a passing candid conversation, or gleaned from the proud declaration of the institution’s title across a myriad of colourfully-hooded chests.

Exeter has become a home to me, and while in the business of spouting the occasional cliché, I refuse to reduce everything that this university and this city means to me to a flippant, recycled utterance, or even so much as try. My connections to this place and its people are intensely personal, despite their resonance with the experiences of so many others, and it is this plurality of experience that makes it all the more special. To some, Exeter may simply be a point on a map, or just a choice of university, but for me, this is my Exeter, my university, and now my home.

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Life in Print

Hello again. (Cue sheepish, apologetic smile)
I know I've been promising you new collections of words, but in truth, all my missives are being sent in various other directions, and I'm actually sort of living various different writing-related lives.
Please don't give me that look; it's not you, it's me. No, really! I seem to see an opportunity to write and jump in feet first without even the merest of glances back at little old you.
By way of the beginnings of an apology, let me link you to one of my pieces which just so happens to be online...

Check out page 7, the bit about flaming barrels of tar.

See; I have been writing. Now, back to that, er, other thing. *cough*

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