Just a rambling about our new training establishment

[colonelpong2]

I dont know if it will interest anyone. Anyway, our gym has been closed for a while for refurbishment. The opening session was last night. Nice new setup. Anyway, I rambled out these two accounts of it, the first more sensible than the second, but the second more amusing to write. Dont know if it will make sense to you guys if you dont know the people involved. But hey, who cares?


Twas a fine Tuesday evening when I departed my days government servitude and made my way towards the newly formed Muay Thai Institute (MTI).
After the rigours of wrestling my way through piles of paper so high that snow formed on craggy peaks and local folk swear they saw a Yeti, the idea of finally hitting something again (any interpretation of context works well here) was a welcome idea.
Getting off the train in the midst of the rush hour crush, it was time to get cracking.
Within moments I was sweating like an insurance lawyer in a truth telling competition. My joints creaked, my muscles ached and my lungs felt that they had just gone through a cheese grater. That was just from the short jog from the railway station to the gym.
Wistfully I looked back to my pre-sedentary days when I had but one chin and didn’t cause elevator cables to groan in protest.
After several rest stops and a certain amount of dry retching, I arrived at the familiar old college street doorway.
Upon entering, the familiar creak of the rickety stairs seemed to be calling me home… or warning me of an impending collapse. Admittedly, probably the latter.
But once I stepped inside the gym itself I froze in shock. My first thought was “The dank! They’ve taken our precious dank!”.
Yes, it was true. The dingy, shadowy corners in which one could hide for a breather betwixt rounds had given way to bright white paint that contained the light rather than absorbing it.
The shabby, cracked paint and ground in wall dirt against which I had found myself flung so many times was gone. Instead everything was neat and crisp. All new and…. well, Just new really.
The lights were both soft and bright.
All manner of bags hung from the ceiling and lined the walls. They were all new and shiny. The lovingly sewn patches and Livingstone-inflicted-shin dents were no where to be seen.
There were now two rings, both well built and sturdy.
The floors were well matted and precisely laid, allowing even us… ample gentlemen… to move with relative stealth.
As my eyes scanned the room I breathed a sigh of relief. The hated chin up bar was gone. No doubt taken by some kindly passing philanthropist as a gesture of good will towards all men.
The session started off with a warm up and the usual brace of push ups. I had forgotten about push ups.
“I like my spindly girl-arms and saggy man breasts!” I exclaimed to the universe in general “You can’t take them!”.
After receiving several strange looks from the assembled club members, I decided to speak my crazy thoughts with the voice inside my head instead of the one from my mouth.
Continuing my examination of the scene, I was surprised by how big the establishment actually was. I had envisaged it as being much smaller, having been used to it in its former configuration.
The session as ever was filled with interest and joyous rigours. At least from what I remember of it. Most of my recollections involve me murmuring “What do you mean that was only the first set?” as my vision gradually faded to black.
After stumbling blindly from the building in a daze (and quietly vowing to somehow find time to come back and do it again) I reviewed the evening and felt more than satisfied with the new setup.
It is a nice new gym with modern equipment in abundance and a good, solid professional feel.
As ever, many thanks to Mark, Jonny and everyone else who helped make the new gym happen.
May the club continue to beat people into bloody pulps (while I drink beer in the audience and roar in approval) for many years to come!



THE PROFESSOR VENTURES FORTH

The sun was setting and the shadows grew long as a despondent hush fell upon the city.
But I was oblivious to this, for there was work to be done.
I, Professor Von Swabius, was embarking on a perilous anthropological expedition to further study the natives of Moo-Tie Island situated just off the coast of the College Street peninsula.
It had been some time since I had last visited this isolated community and I wondered how much things had changed in my absence.
Their society tended to be comprised of friendly folk, although there were rumours of other explorers disappearing in their lands from time to time. Especially the ones wearing ITF badges.
Strapping on my pack and adjusting my pith helmet, I set off. It was a long, hard journey through the urban wilderness in which I had to brave wild buses, irritating emo children and my own poor sense of direction.
But at length I struggled up upon the shores of Moo-Tie Island. The golden sand beneath my feet felt strangely like saw dust and lint as I pressed deep into the interior.
At length I happened upon a flight of rough hewn stairs and made my way upwards. Reaching the top, I found myself right in the midst of the whole local tribe.
There where more than I remembered. Lots more.
Sweat began to bead on my brow as I realised that they were all looking at me. Cautiously, I glanced down. My fly was done up, so that wasn’t it.
Then it hit me. They were performing some kind of communal muscular stretching ritual. I had walked in on some kind of secret ceremony.
This was not good news. Those who intrude upon such rituals after they have begun are often set upon by the village elders and forced to do burpees until their lungs explode prior to being eaten in homage to the local Gods.
I edged slowly backwards. Catching my eye, a tall thin man whom I took to be the chief motioned me forward with a nod. This time, I had survived.
Insinuating myself into their midst, I studied and observed their strange practices. These mainly involved hitting one another.
I was particularly fascinated by the manner in which the local people had modified their environment to suit their needs, expanding into previously untouched areas.
The broad matted pastures where once herds of wild Aikidoka had roamed, frolicked and LARPed had been developed into a bagged area in which the locals carried out their punching rituals.
Their society was clearly complex and more highly evolved than many anthropologists had realised. Much more so than some of the other lost tribes such as the Keishin-Kan, the Wing Chun and the Dil-Ryu (the latter once used the suffice “-Do” but changed it to the more traditional “-Ryu” after they figured out why people were laughing at them. True story).
I looked about me:
- Ritualistic Practices. Check
- Fearsome displays of manliness. Check.
- A serious looking chieftain. Check.
- A unique indigenous language. Check.
- Fair maidens. Check.
- Ceremonial hand attire. Check.

Yep. It was an anthropologists dream alright. If I can find the time away from my day job, I will certainly enjoy studying this strange and diverse society. Perhaps I could marry one of their maidens and become a chief? Any will do. Hey. I wile away my spare time writing this kind of crap so I’m really not that picky.

[Lebell]

so...whats your point exactly?

[Frank White]

Their society was clearly complex and more highly evolved than many anthropologists had realised. Much more so than some of the other lost tribes such as the Keishin-Kan, the Wing Chun and the Dil-Ryu (the latter once used the suffice “-Do” but changed it to the more traditional “-Ryu” after they figured out why people were laughing at them. True story).

I have no idea what you're talking about, but the Dil-Ryu thing was funny...

[Sang]

*puts on his wizard robe and hat*

[colonelpong2]

so...whats your point exactly?

Point? There is no point.

Realise the truth.

There is no point.

Then you will see that it is not me who has wasted your time, only yourself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=28kOO6qDk7s


I just got bored and started writing. I am a writing adict. I tape a dictionary to arm like a nicotine patch. A very bad dictionary. Written by someone who cant spell very well.