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?

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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.

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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.

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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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