Now Thats What I Call Thrift #33

Turn Hendrix up and pass me one wudja?

As I get older, I’m beginning to feel I can enter more and more rooms confidently. Of course, it took some time, some more so than others. I managed to knock pool halls off the list fairly early, no problem. Bookies took slightly longer. No degenerate veteran gambler likes to see a youngster get carried away with a £3 win when he’s weighing up whether his daughter will really miss her bike or not.

Pubs and clubs are no problem now. That’s not to say they didn’t used to be. You try ordering a pint when you’re not 100% sure how to pronounce Kronenberg and you’re shaking like James Murdoch at the reading of a will.

I still struggle with The Body Shop at Christmas and I’m hoping to knock ‘any woman’s bedroom’ off the list, but thanks to the return of the thrift, there is now one tough entrance I no longer have to deal with.

Thrift #33: Start your own gym

As a man more ‘Crouch’ than ‘Shearer’, entering a crowded gym was always going to be a tough proposition for me. It’s just all a bit apologetic. It’s bad enough having other people watching you flounder, but with the amount of mirrors in there, you can’t help but watch yourself. After another disappointing session on the cross trainer I simultaneously can’t, and can’t help but look myself in the eye.

I don’t need that mental strife, I only signed up for the physical pain. Of course, all of this was OK when I was paying 50p a pop at university or even when it was setting me back 25 a month in Nottingham. But when Tooting Leisure Centre demanded 55 quid a month for me to get my sweat on, this gradult had to take drastic action.

So I started my own gym. All you need is a bench, some weights and somewhere to run. No membership fee, no waiting for machinery and no awkward eye contact with the guy opposite as he squeezes out his final sweat drenched set.

Fitness First? No thank you, Thrift First please. Although I will take one of your free bags.