Rab McNeil

GROANARAMA! It’s still some time until gyms can reopen. I miss mine terribly. It got me out the house, and not many things do that. Maybe if I’m getting low on booze or something.

I’m not a gym bunny. I only went once a week, and it was partly just to find someone to talk to. I guess I got a bit of aerobic exercise – 10 to 20 minutes – and, sometimes, the Heath Robinson contraptions gave my back the unusual feeling that its owner wasn’t auditioning for the part of the Wotsname of Notre Dame.

Sometimes, at the village gym, I booked the weights room, which has a capacity for one person. Alas, I am not as other men, and don’t seem able to put on much muscle. Madonna would beat me at arm-wrestling.

But, still, I used to put in the effort and, best of all, rewarded myself with 20-30 minutes in the steam room and sauna. Here, I made lots of friends – defined as “people who cannot escape” – and had many a lively conversation. I did, seriously, meet fascinating people who had interesting jobs. When I told them about mine, everybody just looked silently at the floor, as did I, after realising my faux pas.

The conundrum of journalism is that you want people to open up to you and the first thing they do is clam up. But I’m not a hotshot reporter now, and would never dream of giving away secrets I know, such as Nicola Sturgeon’s predilection for death metal or the crucial tasting role played by Alex Salmond in the development of Greggs steak bakes. Oops!

I’ve missed the sauna so much I thought about building one in my back garden. A crowdfunder would take care of the financial side. But I’d have nobody to talk to in my own sauna, unless I took my Lord of the Rings figurines in with me.

As for lockdown exercise, I’ve all sorts of contraptions and weights in the house, but always find an excuse not to use them. I even laid some out on the kitchen floor and, for three months now, have just walked around them. I blank them out. They’ve become part of the furniture. Sometimes I hang a wet anorak on them to dry.

You say: “Why don’t you go jogging, ken?” Unhand me, madam! A man in my position – jogging! There was a picture of that Boris Johnson at it again this week and, while some people think the Prime Minister is looking fitter, he still looks like a bloater to me. Maybe it’s just his bulging calves.

You say: “There’s a laddie round ma bit who’s always out jogging, and he’s as skinny as a rake.” Yes, but he’s always been thin. He likes being thin. He wants to stay thin. He thinks it’s attractive. And, judging by the grim and focused expression on his coupon, he’s demented. Behold, also, the spectacle that the PM is making of himself. The fact that he wears ankle socks while engaging in

this tomfoolery has made Britain, once loved and respected by all, the laughing stock of the world.

No, I won’t exercise in the street, nor yet in the country lane. That is for exhibitionists, and I’ve never been one of those. Besides, I like my day out to the village gym. It’s a 25 minute drive away, and there’s a different Coop to shop in and a hardware store and, er, everything.

In the meantime, every morning, I draw up a to-do list that usually reads something like this: 1. Do some exercise. 2. Write an interesting and informative column that includes bombshell revelations. 3. Tidy pants drawer (thongs to left, long johns to right). 4. Finish novel. 5. Go to the Co-op. 6. Put new roof on garage shed. 7. Build my own car.

It all gets done except number 1, and I suspect it will be ever thus.

Just desserts

SOME idiot mentioned gyms earlier, but here’s a better way to feel good: eat cakes and puddings. In the supermarket recently, I came to the cakes and really fancied one and thought: “Am I never to have a cake again in my life?” I hadn’t had one for months, nay years, because of a vague feeling that they were bad for you.

But this news just in: they’re good for you. I know because I bought one and, more controversially, I ate it.

And d’you know what? It made me happy.

Not only that but I’d decided to keep it for after my main meal, as a kind of reward for getting through the tatties and gruel. It was delicious, so sweet.

Look at pictures from the past: everybody is slim, and they had pudding or cake with every meal. True, they did hard physical labour and ate smaller main courses, but the point still holds: cakes and puddings are part of life’s rich tapestry.

And it is my intention to weave them into my life more often from now on. They put pounds on your waist but take a weight off your mind.

TOMORROW: RAB McNEIL’S SCOTTISH ICONS – A SINGER WITH A CERTAIN TALENT