Something in common
than a moribund mass of middle-aged man.
It’s not often I feel empathy with Boris Johnson but this is one of those rare moments when work-out planets align and there was a coincidence of cardiovascular lay lines.
Last week, the former London mayor and current Foreign Secretary was papped going for a run dressed in a red hat, shabby blue polo shirt, redand-white floral shorts and a bizarre khaki-coloured fleece. Only his slightly befuddled smile and fit-for-purpose trainers saved the running man from unreserved ridicule. Yes, BoJo looked a right sight.
In truth, I would never have worn any one of those items individually, let alone in a jogger’s ensemble. But really, who cares? Folk fritter a fortune on state-of-the-art sportswear designed for professional athletes operating at the pinnacle of achievement. Boris is never going to win a marathon – he’s more likely to eat one – and I’m never going to play loosehead prop for Scotland.
Admittedly, as a child of the 1970s, I am drawn to the clean lines and design classicism of Adidas. The efficient elegance of German sportswear appeals to me, particularly in the form of jog pants (or, as I prefer to call them, “trackie bottoms”). I have no end of somewhat dated slogan-smeared T-shirts. (There is a sweet irony that my chest is emblazoned with the word “Relax” as I, myself, proceed to collapse in the gym.)
So long as I’m comfortable and my rolls of gradually firming fat remain well hidden, I’m happy. Luckily, Martin is equally understated save for his high-vis tangerine trainers.
We live far too much of our lives in public.
Some of us have signed up for such a life and so have little choice but to accept the ill-judged comments and hurtful insults. But, in the age of the self-obsessed selfie, too many people want to look the part rather than play the part. I’ll leave you with this thought. In my bathroom there’s a photo my wee brother gave me. It’s a shot of the greatest-ever goal-scorer at the football World Cup.
Fist clenched, face indignant, this wee guy from Paisley was wearing an ill-fitting Scotland shirt. Made from 100 per cent cotton, that top was exactly the same as the tops we wore kickin’ a tanner ba’ doon the lane; no science, no design, no technology had been applied in an attempt to cool, streamline or even aid the player.
These fads and fashions in fitness will come and go, no doubt. But even dressed in a blue polo top, red-andwhite floral shorts and khaki fleece, Archie Gemmill would still have mesmerised the Dutch defence and scored that goal.