It is widely believed that there are three paths to eternal life. Ok, there is no eternal life unless you’re a Bhuddist or a vampire, we know that, but figuratively speaking. Paths that will lead to longer, healthier, fitter lives. I’ll give you a clue; McDonalds isn’t one of them. Even football didn’t make the final cut. And single-malt whisky won’t actually make you live longer but will make what time you do have much more pleasurable.

Yoga, Pilates, Tai Chi. These are the golden dream activities. I read it so it must be true. Things that will serve you well into your old age and keep you fitter and better and… more… better.

I don’t think they mean Tai Chi as I do it. Unless your inner peace is derived from leaving a wake of destruction behind you. With broken arms and missing teeth. They mean just the tai chi ‘form’, that wonderful oriental ‘dance’ that flexes every muscle in your body and keeps you poised and balanced, like wot I is.

Pilates is kind of ‘yoga on steroids’. It takes nice, easy, soft movements and increases them exponentially until they really hurt. I’ve done it. Its horrible. Nasty. Women love it. In that masochistic, ‘no pain, no gain’ kind of way. But its undoubtedly good for your muscles, ligaments, cartilage, all the shit that seizes up when you watch the match on Sunday afternoon.

But yoga is the ‘pure’ activity. Just you, yourself and your peacefulness. Ok, you do a bit of downward dogging and upwardly mobiling or whatever, but its basically… kind of… well… sort of…

Before our Thursday night tai chi class, we have to wait for the yogis to leave the studio before we use it to hit each other. Otherwise you trip over them, lying on their mats with beautific smiles on their faces. No, I didn’t say ‘smug’, how dare you! But they always finish late, which we’re tolerant of, and you look through the door to see 25 adults asleep on the floor. I mean wtf? You really don’t need to spend 100 quid a month gym membership for napping on the floor and then getting trodden on by impatient martial artists. I call them the ‘sleeping bunnies’.

And yet as I look at them (as I try to step over), there is something definitely at peace in their expressions. And in fact in their whole demeanour. Their bodies are totally relaxed, their minds completely at rest. They are, internally, under a lotus bush in Rajasthan, rather than on a hardwood floor in North Finchley and that is indeed an aspiration for us all.

So why do I always think: ‘BUNCH’A FUCKIN’ TOSSERS! GET A LIFE! DO SOME PROPER EXERCISE YA LIMP, FLABBY YOGIC DICKHEADS!!!!?

Rachie took a yoga class in Berlin. “Ommmmmmmm… SCHNELL!! RRROUSSS, RRROUSSS!!! Ommmmmm…” She hated it. But she’s my daughter. If you’re not sweating when you’ve finished then you might as well have stayed at home and watched the football whilst drinking beer.

Peaceful Friday

A xxxx