In recent years, the once rigorous and vaguely punitive atmosphere at the local gym has waned into a vibe of wilting leisure. It’s become a place where the young and exhausted come to chill out and the poolside ceramics echo to discussions of a world where tedious icons wield immense power and no one seems concerned. It’s like the last days of Rome, but with less sex and better mobile phone coverage (the plumbing’s about the same).
Man #1: [staring at an engorged pectoral] “I just saw them – at Alexandra Palace.”
Woman: [tugging at chlorinated hair] “We did a party for them in Paris, well one of them – it was a DJ set. I ended up acting as his bodyguard. Girls were just throwing themselves at him. He’s not even that good looking…”
Man #2: [squeezing his own knee] “Yeah, but they’re cool.”
Man #1: [nodding] “Cool as fuck.”
Woman: [playing her ace] “THEN Lenny Kravitz appeared, like with all his people…”
Man #1: [upgrading his previous accolade] “Cool. As. Fuck.”
Man #2: [presumably sincere] “Kravitz must be one of the coolest people on the planet.”
Woman: [amazed that such a perfect world might thrive across the channel] “And this is like a Monday night, in Paris!”
Man #1: “How did it go in Norway?”
Man #2: “What’s happening in Norway?”
Man #1: “She’s got an Internet thing with a guy over there.”
Woman: “I got there and I just didn’t fancy him. I couldn’t kiss him.”
Man #1: “But you came to an arrangement, came to a price?”
Woman: “No – no way. He was alright about it. I stayed for four days. Nothing happened.”
Rough deal. Four days of platonic discomfort, knowing that somewhere in the world, Lenny Kravitz and his people are about to get down. Were it not for the underlying humidity, I might well have wept.
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Illustration by Johnny Ryan
Previously: Michael Holden’s Deleted Scenes – Idiot Boxing
