This is the first in an occasional series in which we let It Was Ever Thus explore some aspect of contemporary life. Here he muses on the pursuit of Pilates amongst certain posh postcodes of London. I find his musings edgy, occasionally sweet and sometimes difficult to take.
Like snorting sherbet. We hope you like it too….
We apologise in advance to those who might have Googled ‘cellular memory’ in search of stories relating to bits of other peoples bodies inside them (which is to say bits within and not bits attached to others without – that’s an entirely separate and, frankly, somewhat oversubscribed internet category). We speak here of the memory of what we physically had which like most memories is distorted by present events so as it may more accurately reflect what we might have always wanted to be.
In thus fashion has an industry been created to cater to this memory or aspiration to memory. I exclude from this discussion those fat kids who in memory terms remain forever rotund and though possessed of bodies of the gods have that forever goblin on their shoulder to remind them of the skin sloughed off . You can usually identify this person through their baton-charge-ugly lover who clearly would never leave them out of sheer gratitude.
As with most things the gay man takes the premise and ramps it up – why be interesting when you can be FABULOUS? So the protein shake guzzling, chicken breast eating, is-this-fennel-is-their-fat-in-fennel faggot is the guy in the artfully-coordinated gym gear with the just out of bed tousled hair that took three hours to gel into place. He has the body born to be displayed at Vauxhall, and while much of it is achieved through pain and sheer dint of will, much is also achieved through mechanisms that make his donor card an accessory rather than something that will be executed on.
The day will come when the Vauxhall arches close in, the spotty back not such a good look, the porn star coupling with fellow hard bodies easily achieved but maintained with difficulty. The lure of the North London dinner party and arch conversation over glass tables proves irresistible and, while he yields the bitch tits to the mists of time, his cellular memory convinces him that toning and stretching and paying sixty quid an hour will somehow hold and encage the inner fat child reasserting his dominance over your gay middle ages.
Welcome to Pilates.