May 2007 - It All Starts Here

[Sweder]

A little gym work at lunchtime following by a visit to the Annie Ironfingers dungeon for more work on the legs. Holy Mary Mother of Jesus! New levels, nay tranches, of pain delivered by this outwardly sweet, apparently caring lady. Before the horror started Annie applied Kinesiology to once again test the strength in my quads, this time with encouraging results. I’m taking all this on trust of course, but on the few outings I’ve had since the last visit my legs have felt strong, all signs of TOM fatigue apparently banished.

Anyone experienced Chinese Cups? Thought not. (My office roomy retorted that all he knew was they were 'generally smaller than average'. Hardy-har-bloody-har.) These are (as the name suggests) cups made of glass - they look a little like miniature glass bells. They're strategically arranged over an area of discomfort in the calf or hamstring, say. A sort of airgun is attached and flesh is sucked into the cup, along with (apparently) all sorts of mischeivous gremlin juice. The administrator then drags the cup along the leg, finally re-tightening to leave the flesh-screw in situ whilst they massage the recently brutalised area.

This feels very much like someone has stabbed you through the leg and is pulling the blade up through the muscle. Actually I should imagine that would be marginally less painful. Sweat poured from my brow in cartoon-style spurts as first my calves then my hamstrings burned in hellish flames of agony.
‘Oh your legs are in much better shape!’ cooed the Marquise de Sade, all the while attempting to force large amounts of massage oil through the pores in my skin and into my legs.
‘Och I’m impressed; I can dig my fingers much, much deeper than last time and you’re still really quite relaxed.’
'That’s because I’ve fucking passed out you heartless bloody Nazi!'
I lean into the hefty, circa 1930s Tommy Gun as bullets spray across the counter, tiny transparent cups shattering in a lethal shower of lead and splintered glass . . .
‘Erm, yes . . . I’ve had a restful week and taken my vitamin B complex’ I mumbled into my sweat-soaked towel. It was pitiful. As if this simpering would in any way distract from further punishment.

‘Hmm, I need to take a look at your bands.’
Bands? Ah yes, the muscle running down the outside of each thigh, the IT band. Gentle fingers probed and prodded, then a little firmer –
‘Whoaaaargh!’
‘Yes, they’ll need some work next time you’re in . . .’
The cups? Not the cups!! Anything, really, I’ll do anything . . .

Speaking of next appointments I mentioned the forthcoming Seaford Half to which, by the way, I still harbour hopes of enticing our revitalised host.
‘Aye, then perhaps we can try The Stones.’
A hideous smile spread across that saintly Scottish visage.
‘The . . . the Stones?’
I felt like a naughty schoolboy caught fiddling under the sheets by the wicked Matron. The punishment would be severe . . . humiliating . . .
‘Oh yeeyas . . . deep heat applied via The Stones. Muscles love the warmth and the effects last for days. You’ll love it!'

Perhaps I could save up and go see one of those ladies who wear all the gear. You know, Pauline’s House of Pain, Donna’s Dungeon, that sort of thing. Manacles, whips, eating sweets in front of you without offering one . . . at least you get to ogle the stockings and suspenders, nice spike-healed boots . . .
‘Er, yeah, that sounds . . . great. I’ll book in a few days before.’
‘Excellent!’ a wee clap of the hands.
‘You’ll no regret it.’

Forgive me but I seriously doubt that.