Chatty chatty bang bang! 

Just coasting on the back of my last post; the woman on the exercise bike next to me is having a full blown, animated conversation on her phone. She’s panting heavily which I suppose is… sexy? 

Unlike me,  she’s pedalling very fast and sweating lots. 

Also unlike me –  who is able to compose this post whilst pedalling  – she’s lacking the appropriate concentration necessary to multitask and has missed the pedals twice,  nearly giving herself some complimentary handlebar dentistry. 

Heavy breathing? Sexy. 

Heavy bleeding? Not as much. 

Period. 

FuckMonkey and the five things that annoy me about the gym

Gather ’round, gather ’round; I have a tale to tell……..the tale of FuckMonkey.

Now, before I tell this tale I need to get some stuff off my chest.  At first it will feel like I am never getting to the story of FuckMonkey, but believe me…I am.

All will become clear.

So, to begin, I would like to talk about the gym, again.  The last time I shared observations about the gym I hadn’t been in the country very long so my exposure was as limited as the brain power of…of…well, FuckMonkey actually.

More of that later.

I’ve noticed some behaviours in the gym here in Vegas that just need to be shared. This isn’t including the weirdos who pay a yearly gym subscription just to stretch and do mat exercises on the floor.

Just do that shit at home.

(shrugs)

Anyway, here are 7 baffling and annoying behaviours and practices I’ve seen at the gym, in between gawping at unnecessarily muscular girls’ bums.

1 – Massive Water Bottles.

I don’t really get this one.  These things are mini (but not THAT mini) versions of office water coolers.

water-bottle

Compensating for something?

Considering the gym has drinking fountains and bottle filling stations everywhere offering nice cool filtered water, why do you need to bring such a huge bottle and carry it around with you?  It’s like having a huge plate at an all-you-can eat buffet.  Yes you can put more food on your plate all at once (you greedy fuck), but the food will not be far from the preferred temperature long before you finish the plate.

Mmm, warm water.  Refreshing.

At first I thought it was for those crazy people who do cardio for what seems like hours – putting the rest of us to shame – but these bottles don’t fit through most doorways, let alone the cup-holders on the machines.

Maybe it’s because people don’t want to make the long walk to any of the various drink fountains, but surely that’s just counterproductive…like the dickheads from the car park [parking lot].

This need to carry around enough water to drown a small Hippo still amuses me, and I just want to point and laugh…but I don’t; some of these people are BIG!

Sm bodybuild

Me so THIRSTY!

And, speaking of water….

 

2 – Water Fountain Etiquette

This one is just plain hilarious.  To start, here is an actual photo of one of the water fountains in my gym.

fountains-gym

You’ll notice they’re at slightly different heights; the reason for which is a mystery.  I have seen a dude with dwarfism[1] in there, so is it for him?  I don’t know.

Now I think about it, I’ve never actually seen him take a drink from one of these fountains. He carries around a sensibly sized water bottle because a) he’s not an idiot and b) he has a clear grasp of basic physics.

But there’s something about the varying heights of these fountains that has people gravitating to the one on the left.  I have lost count the amount of times I’ve walked past 2 or 3 people waiting in line for the fountain on the left and quenched my thirst with the one on the right.

If anything, the act of bending down a little further is an extra workout for your abs.

Also, people have no idea how to drink from them. I once saw a mouth breather sucking on the nozzle like it was his mum’s tit.  There’s no way I was getting anywhere near that after him.

Plus, I’ve seen his mum.

(shudder)

Then there are those people who strut to the fountain – overly panting and wheezing (for attention) from lifting heavy things in the air and then putting them down again – only to lean on the fountain with both hands, pausing for effect (and more attention), before drinking.

They can see there are people waiting behind them (at the left fountain, naturally) and yet they stand there all important, entitled and ‘roided up.

Then they take the smallest of sips because the peak of their baseball hat gets in the way.

Speaking of which…

 

3 – Unnecessary attire

I’m not talking about those string thin muscle tops that are less ‘clothing, and more ‘shoelace’, no…I’m talking about hats and sunglasses.

Indoors.

Unless you’re Jake or Elwood Blues, I will always have issues with you wearing sunglasses indoors…you fucking twat.  But I’ve lost track of the number of heavily ‘roided bubble people I’ve seen wearing them in the gym.

bubbleman

“I’m forever made of bubbles….”

Maybe they think it makes them look cool, but they’d be wrong.  I thing I’ve got them sussed; they do all that shouting, grunting and slamming down of weights only to secretly look around afterwards to see if anyone is watching.

We’re not.

We don’t care.

And when these bizarre bumpy behemoths stand around high fiving each other and talk at a DECIBEL LEVEL LOUD ENOUGH TO BE HEARD FROM SPACE, we simply don’t give a shit.

Shut up, bubble people.

But they’re not the worst offenders of unnecessary attire; not by a long shot.  No, the award goes to the mopey teenagers with slouch beanies.  These fuckers really grit my shit.  You know slouch beanies right?  They’re what the smurfs used to wear before they become popular (the beanies, not the Smurfs)

I would normally insert a picture here of a mopey, slouch beanie’d bell-end, but it would fill me with so much rage I might not finish this post.

(breathe…breathe…)

I have lost count the number of fantasies I’ve had of pulling their hat down over their face and garotting them with their headphones.  I find it weird that people wear a hat in the gym anyway, but a big, flaccid woolly bag?

beaniegym

This coming from a man who has a cold head

The reason these skinny (and they’re always skinny), slow blinking, perma-texting Biebers are cold is because the only things that get a work out are their thumbs.  They just move from machine to machine doing half a lacklustre set – on the lowest weight – followed by sitting on the machine with their face in their phones.

Which leads me to….

 

4 – Hogging the machine

If you’re sat on a machine and can see someone waiting, either let the person know how many sets you have left, alternate sets with them, or fuck off.

No reading texts.  No checking Facebook.  Just fuck off.

That is all.

 

5 – Being on the phone

I understand that you may get a call when you’re at the gym; that’s fair.  I also appreciate that sometimes you need to make a call.  But some of these fuckers talk on the phone during their entire workout.

There is nothing more annoying that the person next to you talking constantly, and hands-free on their phones at a volume that is not loud enough to be overheard, but loud enough to piss you off.  Honestly. what is so important that you simply HAVE to have this conversation right now?

Now, the assumption you’re probably having is that all these social butterflies are talking hands-free; not so.  I saw one dude sat on an ab-crunch machine talking into his phone in that walkie-talkie style I despise so much.

Talking like this makes you look like a twat. Fact.

Talking like this makes you look like a twat.
Fact.

For clarity, the ab-crunch machine had overhead handles that you pull down as you crunch, raising your knees and grunting like a porn star.  It was both angering and hilarious to watch this utter penis struggle to maintain a conversation whilst crunching with one hand on his phone and the other holding one of the handles.

It was awkward and embarrassing, all at once.

So, how does all this relate to FuckMonkey?  Well, I’m glad you asked.

A few weeks ago I was in the gym and I was working my back.  Of all the pec-fly machines in the gym, only three of them double as a back-fly machine.

For the uninformed, these machines look something little like this:

fly-machine

Note – that is not Superman

On this day, two out of the three machines were out of service.

I had almost completed my routine and only had the back-fly machine left to use, so I walked towards the one working machine and was headed off by this guy who placed his towel on it and then went to grab some water.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present you with FuckMonkey.

FuckMonkey hit all 5 on the list.

After standing in line behind someone using the left fountain, he came back, looked at me blankly, put down his oversized water bottle, then adjusted the weight he needed and began doing chest exercises.  I couldn’t believe it, he could’ve chosen ANY of the other pec-fly machines that didn’t double as a back-fly machine, but no…he had to use this one.

Oh well‘, I thought, ‘he shouldn’t be that long‘.

I’ll wait.

He was on the phone (hands-free), mumbling some inaudible shit while he sorted out the height of his seat and began his first set.

I waited.

He finished his set – still mumbling – adjusted his stupid fucking hat and sat there on his phone for what felt like an eternity.

I waited a bit longer.

He pulled himself away from his phone for a for a moment to pout and flex his puny chest muscles in the mirror before looking up at me blankly and adjusting the weight on the machine.

He started his 2nd set.

I waited some more.

After his 2nd set – still mumbling some bollocks into his phone – he went back to texting and pouting and flexing in the mirror.

Again, he looked at me blankly, then adjusted the weight on the machine and began his 3rd set.

After 15 minutes (yes, FIFTEEN minutes) and numerous sets, I caught the eye of a fellow gym member (let’s call him Larry) who gave me a ‘Sheesh! How long is that guy going to take?‘ look.

I nodded back with my best I know, right?‘ look.

After a minute or so Larry walked over to FuckMonkey and did what any Brit would never do; he asked Fuckmonkey how long is is going to be.

Are you going to be long?  That guy behind you is waiting for the machine“.

FuckMonkey muttered something and Larry looked at me, shrugged and went back to his workout.

Now, usually I wouldn’t wait around, but this was the LAST machine in my routine for the day, and the completionist in me just wanted to get it done.

I waited another 10 minutes and FuckMonkey carried on pouting, flexing, mumbling and doing sets…all the time knowing I was stood there shifting from foot to foot and huffing loudly.

Us Brits might not have the balls to confront a stranger, but we sure know how to huff.

At one point, another gym goer asked me if I was using the machine I was leaning against.  I replied with “No, I’m waiting for that machine, right there” and pointed full on and passive aggressively at the one FuckMonkey was on.

FuckMonkey saw me.  FuckMonkey didn’t change his routine.

After a full 25 minutes had passed, enough was enough.  I walked over to FuckMonkey and interrupted his current pouting session.

Excuse me…” (I’m English after all, I don’t want to appear rude), “…how much longer are you going to be?“.

He mumbled something like “M gon’ do, li’, a som’ mo’ set’, li’, 20 o’ wha’ev

I looked at him for a moment, resisting the urge to garotte his weedy little neck, and said sarcastically (and a little aggressively), “So, what are you saying, 20 more minutes?“.

He nodded and said “Yeah“.

And that’s how he got his name.

newspaper

1 This is nothing derogatory about his size, or some cheap shot.  I don’t mock or berate people based on their appearance, but rather their level of sheer Dumbfuckery.  If you’re stupid enough for me to write about you, you’re fair game.  Plus, two of my friends have a beautiful baby boy with dwarfism. (Shout out to J and M!)

Wishing the Mile High Club was an actual bat!

A week or so ago my wife and I took a trip to Venice.  In lieu of our upcoming move to Las Vegas we felt it wise to visit some places in Europe while they were still pretty close by (and a lot cheaper!)

Plus, as we are moving to sin city, I thought it was a good idea she see what Venice REALLY looks like, rather than basing her ideas on The Venetian hotel on the strip.  We’d already visited Paris the year before and she’s already been to New York, so the only one left – that the Las Vegas strip had ripped off – was Venice.

And before you mention The Luxor, friends of mine have been to Cairo and apparently it’s a shithole; so fuck that.

Anyway, I want to tell you about our trip.

But, Headinablender isn’t a travel blog, nor will it ever be unless something weird, wonderful or funny happens.  I’m not about to go on and on about the beautiful canals, the crippling expensive food and drink, the amazing architecture or the overpriced gondolas driven (driven? Is that right?) by uninterested Italians with an oar in one hand and their phone in the other.

No, i’m talking about our actual experience of getting there and back; literally ‘the trip’.

There are certain moments in life when you realise you’re now ‘a proper grown up’  These include hosting a dinner party, paying rent/mortgage, choosing curtains and, in the case of our trip, checking in at an airport.

I remember going to the airport when I was a kid and just following my parents around while they organised tickets, passports and luggage.  It was just a thing they did until it was time for all of us to sit on the plane.  I never considered the effort that had been put in before we’d even got to the airport.

The thing is, no-one pulls you aside at school and shows you how to book a holiday, you just ‘wing it’.  Nowadays it’s pretty much all done online.  There seem to be two types of holiday companies; those you’ve heard of, and those who are cheaper. Either way, you select your holiday, type in some stuff, pay some money and it’s done.  Apparently.

No tickets, no paperwork.  That’s it.

Then you find out you have to go to the airline’s website and enter your passport information and pay extra if you want to take a suitcase.

Still no tickets or paperwork.  Just faith that all will be OK when you get to the airport.

So, when we arrived at the check in desk and the clerk took our passports, checked us in, took our luggage and handed us our boarding passes, I felt like a proper grown up.

I felt like turning to an imaginary 5 year old me and winking, but I decided against it as I didn’t want to appear twitchy or weird and I wanted to actually be allowed on the flight.

franco wink

Anyway, fast forward to the departure gate.

We were walking down the tunnel to the plane and there were a lot of people in front of us, and more coming in behind us, including one couple who had a little boy that kept running up and down the tunnel.

“Elliott!  Elliot!  Come back here darling.  Elliott!  Elliott!”

His name was Elliott.

After we (and a lot of our fellow passengers) had enduring Elliott’s delightful stomping and kicking of our hand luggage, shins and patience, we finally boarded the plane.

Then, after waiting an eternity for people to put their hand luggage in the overhead lockers and actually sit their fucking arses down, we took our seats and relaxed.

This relaxation was short lived as, sat noisily behind us, was Elliott and his fucking family, comprising of mummy, daddy and younger sister Imogen.  How did we know their names? It was all…..we fucking heard…..for the duration…..of the fucking……flight.

Mostly from ‘Daddy’

“Elliott, try not to kick the seat in front”

(my wife’s seat; Elliott was playing a very dangerous game)

“Elliot, please sit down”

“Elliott, please let Imogen look out the window”

“Elliott, please stop crying.  Look out the window, can you see the clouds?”

“Imogen, please stop crying.  Look out the window, can you see the clouds?”

“Imogen, let Elliott have a go with the colouring book”

“Elliott, please don’t throw the pens on the floor”

“Elliot, please try not to kick the seat in front”

(this was a popular one.  Notice the word ‘try’)

“No Elliott, you can’t sit by the window now, we’re about to land.  No, please stop crying”

And then, once we’d landed and taxi’d to the gate, we were treated to this moment of absolute fucking lunacy…..

“We’re here!  I’m going to get you an ice cream for being such a good boy”

You had to be shitting me!

Once the ‘Fasten Seat Belt’ sign had been switched off we stood up and joined the rest of the plane, who had already stood up a long time ago, to retrieve our bag from the overhead locker.

baseball riot

This was my opportunity to turn around and get a proper look at these people who had made our two hour flight feel like ten.

The parents looked like death.  Gaunt, tired and dead behind the eyes.  They almost looked grey; drained of all the colour in their lives by the little prick jumping up and down on their laps.

So that made me feel better.

To be honest, the best part of the flight was shortly after the wheels had hit the tarmac.

We were sat over the wing, so as the plane was still hurtling down the runway we were able to see part of the wing lift up; creating more drag and slowing the plane.

I smiled, turned to my wife and said “Flaps”.

Ryan Reynolds grin

We both laughed.

It was all we could do not to strangle (H)Elliott with his seatbelt.

Speaking of seatbelts, have you noticed the crew walk up and down the plane to ensure you’ve fastened it, and THEN show the demonstration of how to fasten your seatbelt?  It seems as redundant as showing a pregnant woman how to lose her virginity.

Anyway, we left our woes at baggage claim and went on the have a great time in Venice. What a beautiful city.  If you ever get the chance to go, go. Photos don’t do it any justice, it truly is stunning.

Venice

By the end of our stay we were looking forward to our flight home.  We had chosen a late night flight to ensure we got as much time in Venice as possible and we could also enjoy a nice sleep on the plane.

Yeah, that didn’t happen.

We had the ONLY drunk person on the plane sat behind us, sprawled out across three seats kicking us both in the back for the entire flight whilst he snored like a baboon being sawn in half.  We lost count the number of times the cabin crew had to show him how to use the seatbelt.

If anyone needed to pay attention to the safety brief and seltbelt demonstration, it was this guy.  Mind you, he was having problems blinking both eyes together so it’s unlikely he’ll be able to successfully operate a life jacket.

Silver lining.

Also, we were lucky enough to have three incredibly noisy Italian kids on the row behind him who were the ONLY people on the plane making a noise; everyone else was sleeping.

This is the reason they don’t allow guns on planes.

Still, two amusing things happened during our stay in Venice that i’d like to share with you.

My wife really wanted a new purse/bag, so I said I’d buy her one.  Big mistake.

I was dragged into almost every bag store in Venice, and when you consider that shops in Venice only sell either Bags, Gloves or Masks (yes, masks)…..that’s a lot of fucking shops.

I noticed a lot of the bags had ‘Vera Pelle’ written on them.  Never heard of her.  This designer was everywhere!

vera pelle

My wife pointed out that ‘Vera Pelle’ means ‘Real Leather’ in Italian.  I could be forgiven for my mistake, but i’m half Italian!

Twat.

And the second funny thing was this:

ARS Liquid

Nuff said.

Drop it like it’s hot

Whilst sat having lunch with my wife, we were overpowered by the loud plum voiced conversation being had at the next table.

It quickly became clear this ‘man’ (I use that term loosely) and woman worked in the film industry due to the number of names being dropped per second.

Seriously, there were more drops than a Dubstep album.  They were almost trying to outdo each other over who has sucked more celebrity cock.

Then, during the mindless drivel and overenthusiastic nodding, the ‘man’ said something about his child.

I’m sorry, his what?

How did that happen?

Anyway, this prompted my favourite part of the conversation and the reason for today’s post.

“I’ve got a photo of him here”, he said pulling out a pink sequined purse* and producing a crumpled up photograph, “He’s 17 months, but he looks 22”

Wow.

Just wow.

next table

*not strictly true. It was lilac**

**also not true

Do you agree?

“Yeah”
“Yeah”
“Yeah”
“Uh huh”
“Yeah”
“Mmm hmm”
“Yup”
“Yup”
“Yeah”
“Yeah”
“Yeah”

(Long pause)

“Yeah”
“Yeah”
“Well yeah”

(Pause)

“Yup”
“Uh huh”
“Mmm hmm”
“Yup”
“Yeah”
“Yeah”
“Yeah of course”
“Yeah”
“Yup”
“Yeah, OK bye”

…was the half of the telephone conversation we all had to endure from some guy on the train.

It was as annoying as a dripping tap.

I’m sure he’ll agree.

image

Oh do shut up

Oh fuck.

I’m sat at a table on the train surrounded by seven horse-teethed 40 somethings (probably with names like Tarquin, Jeremy, Marjory, Cynthia etc.) drinking wine, gin & tonic and grazing on hand made crisps, guffawing at tedious jokes and japes at a volume fitting of a jet engine.

I’m so glad I’m trying to watch Doctor Who on my phone.

The volume just won’t go any higher (on my phone, not on these plum voiced pricks whose volume has no ceiling)

Exterminate!
Exterminate!

image