A Right Pair

I’ve been going to aerobics classes on and off for the last ten years and I have never, ever, encountered a married couple instructing a class. Yes, that’s right – a married couple. One person putting you through your painful paces is bad enough, but two?


I couldn’t actually believe what I was seeing the first time I took Body Attack at Virgin Active, one Tuesday night. I walked into the class – which was heaving at the seams – and there, warming up at the front, was the fitness world’s equivalent to Richard & Judy. Her: small, blonde, perky, with a body clearly overcompensating for the face (sorry Judy, that’s definitely not you). Him: probably fat as a kid and bullied at school, with no real muscle definition whatsoever.

This hideous pair were, I soon discovered, from New Zealand, which explained a lot. There’s a certain breed of person from the Antipodes that as soon as they touch UK land one just feels compelled to slap them in the face.


Since when did aerobics instructors have to take tips from watching
X Factor or Annie, the Musical to earn them that spot in front of the class? Her: over-exaggerated high kicks, vom-inducing cheesy grin, high fives and clapping. Him: the joker, the fool, mimicking the Hitler salute, jovial hand shooting and clapping. I swear if I ever saw him in the pub I would kick him in the balls and the clapping? I’d rather poke my eyes out with hot irons than be caught dead joining in with that.


But I tell you what. Despite them being the most irritating humans I’ve ever (ever) enountered, they do the job – they are the Nazis of the fitness world. By the end of the class I am properly spent, having burned 600 calories, which, at the end of the day, is all that matters.


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