Ben Machell undergoes a strenuous bout of exercise self-shaming

Over the past few months, I’ve spent a lot of time watching other people exercise. It started with the London Marathon. It was the first burning hot day of the year, so we decided to take the kids to Tower Hill in order to soak-up the occasion. I’ve always had a soft spot for the London Marathon ever since I dragged myself round the course in 2003. Say what you like about the provincial petit bourgeoisie, but we’re bloody good at showing up in London mob-handed and putting ourselves through excruciating discomfort for a good cause and some fleeting social capital.

Standing in the packed crowd, cheering the runners on, I felt a slight pang of guilt. Should that be me out there, I thought? Should I be in trainers and shorts, drenched in sweat, with a face like somebody having a Tabasco colonic? I glanced around me, at the spectators with their big smiles and sun hats and cans of Strongbow Dark Fruit cider, and decided that, no, it’s probably best that I’m on this side of the fence.

But then, not long after, some pals did a sponsored swimathon. I bunged them some cash but felt deeply jealous. It’s not that I can swim particularly well — I cut through the water with the grace of a shortsighted manatee — but it was the glory I envied. The acclaim! The Facebook photos of me looking tired but victorious! Also, actually doing the swim would’ve cost me a good deal less in sponsorship handouts. I gritted my teeth and congratulated them all.