So the evil canteen at evil work has evilly started stocking an evil product. Evil, because I am now addicted to it. Every time I'm at the canteen's counter ordering a cup of what they laughingly sell as coffee, my mouth starts to salivate, my hands start to shake in anticipation and it takes every ounce of willpower to resist buying it. Walking back to my desk without it feels like I've cheated myself, and acts as a downer on my mood for the next few hours.
I'm talking about cashew nuts. BBQ-flavoured cashew nuts. Here are some cashew nuts. Look at how yummy they look.
Look at them. Yummy. Not as yummy as BBQ-flavoured cashew nuts, but yummy just the same. Now if you could imagine them covered in MSG and salt and BBQ flavoured "stuff" you'd be staring at a food stuff that actually makes my heart beat faster. Of course, they're very bad for me. Well they would be. They taste nice and yummy and the world is a cruel place and if there is a God, he's a sadistic prick. This is why everything in life that tastes good is bad for you. Cashew nuts are bad enough, but BBQ-flavoured ones are a heart attack in a bag, apparently. I found this out while I was Googling them to find an image of them. The second link that pops up under that search string tells you just how bad they are.
The Beast confirms this when I arrive at the gym and pick his brain on whether the internet is right.
"Cashew nuts?" he sniffs. "They're awful. Full of oil and saturated fats - and that's just the normal ones. If they're salted or dry roasted, they're even worse."
"Really?"
The Beast looks at me through narrowed eyes.
"Yes. That means you can never eat them. And don't ever question me again."
We amble over to the rowing machine and The Beast programs in 2000 meters.
"I want you to finish this in under eight minutes and twenty seconds," he says.
My jaw hits the floor.
"I'll never manage that!" I wail.
"Well, you won't if you keep whining!" snaps The Beast. "Get to it."
The first couple of minutes on the rower and I start to wheeze a bit. I keep going though, as The Beast has changed the time to show what my projected finishing time will be, rather than how many minutes I've been strapped into this horrible fucking contraption. The time alternates for what feels like eternity, flashing 08:15, then 08:11, then 08:21, then 08:25, then back to 08:16. Every time the projected finish time shows higher than 08:20, he throws me an exaggerated wince, causing me to laugh. Or at least, I would laugh if I had any fucking air in my lungs; with every stroke on the rower, my knees push my stomach in and force out a mouthful of much needed 02. Towards the end, The Beast starts tapping his foot rhythmically and barking "Ramming speed" at random intervals. I finish and he gives me a little round of applause.
"Well done. I'm almost tired having watched that!"
"I... I... I'm so... so glad that I amuse you. May... Maybe you..."
"TO THE CYCLES!!!"
On the bikes he sets the speed at an equally sadistic level, except this time I have the upper hand. I've been following his horrible 600 calorie program at the weekend - recently the little fucker upped it 650, if you can believe that - mainly using the bikes. I pedal furiously, looking like I'm about to die, but secretly rebuilding internal organs that were reduced to paste on the rower. By the end, I've almost returned to normal.
This doesn't last long. The Beast takes me over to the squat rack - the place where all legs go to die - hands me two dumb-bells and then forces me to do some horrible combination of lunges and vertical presses which reduce my legs to jello and make my arms feel as though someone's shoving bits of broken glass into my triceps and shoulders. This, however, is just the beginning...
(Be here tomorrow for part 2 and find out why this entry was cut short and why my hands are in so much fucking pain right now, that I don't care this entry is incomplete, I can't fucking type anymore.)