At last, BoJo and I have

Hardeep Singh Kohli

IHAVEN’T seen Martin Thomson for a couple of years. Cardonald’s finest and I will soon be back together, after a hefty hiatus. From this week on, we will spend an hour, thrice weekly, in each other’s company. He will stand over, beside and behind me as I struggle, sweat and (hopefully) succeed.

During than unending hour I will hate Martin Thomson. I will admire Martin Thomson. I will be grateful that I know Martin Thomson. I’ll then buy him an Americano and as gently as our paths crossed they will similarly split.

Martin is my fitness trainer. He rules the roost at Scotstoun gym with a quiet deliberation. He’s not one of those who offers a get-fit-quick routine. Martin has a philosophy, a philosophy that has worked a treat for me. I love the gym. So much of my life is driven by how I look, how I’m dressed and how I appear. From black-tie dinners to kilted ceilidhs I’m ever aware of my appearance. The gym, like broadcasting on the wireless or indeed writing a column, affords me freedom in terms of how am attired. Right now you have no idea, nor indeed any expectation, of my sartorial state of being. I might be wearing a sensationally scarlet silk sarong. (I’m joking, by the way. I’m soberly dressed in blue jeans, grey T-shirt and dark green gutties. Or am I?) Similarly when I’m being tortured and tormented by Thomson, what I’m wearing couldn’t be less relevant. I’m never going to look good at the gym. No amount of DriFit, Lycra-based, body-sculpting, Neoprene fabric could transform this tubby, tired twit into anything other