"I Would Never Glitter You Without Your Consent."

... Not the sentence with which I thought my night would end, but life comes with some pretty brilliant twists and 21st May was just one of those days. I feel so proud. Leeds Uni has done it again and I am so happy to have been a part of it.

By "it", I mean birthed an incredible, unique idea. Today, along with hundreds of other women, I was a part of "Hype the Park, #BoogieNotBlame", a dance-march in the effort to "RECLAIM our streets, CHALLENGE the narrative that women are responsible for sexual assault, and EMPOWER ourselves through COLLECTIVE DISCOOOOO" (taken from the Facebook event - view here). The event came together in a startling two weeks, with the idea only taking form recently, after a number of sexual assaults having taken place around the area of Hyde Park, Leeds. It was created by Rosie Collingwood, and supported/collectively organised by ten others - all students or former students of the University of Leeds.


The march itself was "women and non-binary (trans*-inclusive) -only" - a fact which has, during the formation and development of the event, caused debates. Numerous people questioned the decision to exclude from the march those who identity as male, and while I can appreciate the reason for concern about this decision, I fully understand why it had to be women and non-binary (a person who does not fully identity with one or another gender) only. I do feel vulnerable walking alone late at night and that is, sadly, quite simply a feeling reserved solely for females; as the event goes on to say, "the discourse, ideas and beliefs surrounding sexual assault and staying safe are undoubtedly gendered". As I told the ITV camera man (yes, I made it onto local ITV news, no, I didn't know it was an ITV employee and so wasn't very eloquent), we needed to be proactive and this was the perfect, accessible, upbeat way in which to do it.

One of definite highlights was the "pre-party" held outside the union as marchers congregated: empowering and generally uplifting party music was blasted from the radio broadcasting balcony as the crowd gathered. I don't have much experience in anti-rape-culture marches, but I'd say some Beyoncé is a pretty good way to start one.


Frankly, I was shocked - and delighted to be so - as the numbers kept growing. I felt so proud that something so huge was an event at my own university, and that so many people - men and women alike - felt passionate enough to turn up. It was at this point that a tiny bit of adrenaline got to me (where have we heard that before?) and I started to sprinkle adequate amounts of gold glitter over myself - I never re-found the girl who gave it to me, so thank you, anonymous Glitter-Girl. 

The music kept blaring, and soon we were prepping to embark on a (slightly chilly, damp) march around Hyde Park, complete with a plethora of handmade signs and posters: from "Boogie not blame!", to "Together we are STRONG" and "We are family!". I was kindly given the latter as a momento. It's still randomly hanging around my flat, just so I don't forget that, you know, we are family.

The march commenced and we made a good (all-inclusive, steady!) pace around the park's perimeter. We attracted a lot of attention, most of it good. There were a few mocking (my imagination?) car horns though, all from male drivers, and it seemed a little ironic, but you cannot expect something to be perfectly received. 
...Just like the drunken pub-dweller in the banana costume: not well-received ("Actually, it's women only, so if you could just leave-" "BUT I'M A BANANA!"). As the march continued in its surround-sound disco glory, I was still holding the pot of glitter. It was getting tiresome. There was a lot left. So I tipped it ALL over my head. Regret to follow.

At the end, there was a lot of cheering, high spirits and lovely speeches of thanks for the event's creators - we even had a speaker from Leeds' Rape Crisis Centre (view here) SARSVL. An incredible culmination of brilliant causes to end the event, and the crowd finally started to disperse (to yet more Beyoncé). I sprinkled the last magical millimeter of gold glitter on the union's steps, Hansel and Gretel style, making our mark... Albeit a tiny one. 

The march was a great idea - but what made it so brilliant was the sheer number of people who noticed how great it was, and got behind it. Yet another thing to add to my memorable set of First Year experiences - ones which I never would have seen coming.

Read The Gryphon's full article here, and see #BoogieNotBlame's Twitter page, for more pictures and praises of the event here.

The coat I was wearing at the time still sheds glitter every time I wear it, but for anyone worried by my glittery ways? As I told a fellow marcher asking for a glitter-sprinkle too... I would never glitter you without your consent.

Adrenaline Can Scare Your Peers (in a Good Way. Sometimes.)

"You were like that moment when your phone suddenly lights up REALLY BRIGHTLY in a dark room and everyone was like - BAM! WOAH!"

 - I'll try to take that as a resounding compliment. Other comments I collected yesterday included "The passion was real", "It was almost like a rally", and "When you started I thought you'd lost the plot, until I realised it was on purpose."

... Only the very last bit is debatable. Because yesterday I found out the true meaning of an adrenaline rush.

I have, in the past, occasionally been known to get a little over-excited. I'm not massively inclined to cliff-dive or swim with sharks, but I still know how to live, don't I, so speeches, performances, radio, that moment when I realise we've managed to slide onto the Hifi £4 guestlist - I tend to get pumped up pretty quickly. In the past, this has resulted in the classic nervous-red-ears, slightly jittery disposition and a tendency to squeak a bit, but then ultimately going on to do whatever was planned.

Unfortunately (or, perhaps, in the end, massively fortunately), yesterday's plans did not adhere to these previous experiences. I was running for Head of the Beat (the drive-time show on LSR), a committee position for the coming year, and so was required to make a two minute speech detailing why I should get the society members' votes. I had written my speech. I had practiced it an unbelievable number of times. It seemed a fairly short order.

The factors on the day, though, got to me. My incredibly worthy competitor was being talked up a storm beforehand, and I had just heard uproarious laughter from the spectators as I stood outside during his speech. I knew that my speech was about six seconds too long, and of course I was standing up in front of about sixty society members, including a lot of friends, to say it. I think a combination of these things contributed to the slight panic, and so by the time I was up at the front of the room I had a slight tinge of starry oh-no-I-cannot-see fog around the corners of my eyes and I could only prey that the right things were going to come out of my mouth.

thx babe

Frankly, it started on point. I was aware that it was a little louder than planned but I introduced myself and said that I deserved everyone's votes. Cool.

... At which point, everything in the world suddenly seemed irrelevant apart from the fact that I wanted this position a lot (maybe more than I should have done), and that I would do anything to convince these people that they should vote for me. So my energy ramped up, and I started getting a lot more passionate than any of the times I'd said it in rehearsal.

As mentioned before, I had a lot to say. I was rattling off points with incredible speed. Then came the hand gestures, like a lollipop lady after her seventeenth espresso, but I didn't stop - I saw some friends in the corner giving me a wide-eyed smile and thumbs up and it just spurred me on. The volume was picking up even more and I was, although I cannot say for certain, probably grinning in an incredibly disconcerting way as well.


The little push of enthusiasm from my pals must have tipped me over the edge, because it all kicked off and I actually ended up jumping off the ground a little, crying, "AND THAT PURE CHARISMA IS WHY I WOULD MAKE - THE - IDEAL - CANDIDATE." I even ended with a little impromptu war-like exclamation of "VOTE FOX." It was mad. I fancied myself quite the sensation.

So... What was I thinking?

The answer is, of course, that I wasn't thinking at all. It was a good ten minutes afterwards that I recalled some of what had happened and started asking people, "Did I just spend two minutes jumping up and down and pointing at people?" Wide-eyed nods all round. I ended up spending the rest of the day saying to still-shocked peers "God, what I can I say, the adrenaline got to me..."

I can only liken it to a story once told by my dance teacher, when one of her students, pumped up with so much adrenaline at the end of a performance, broke out of the perfectly rehearsed formation and flung himself into the splits at the front of the stage, to a gobsmacked audience. Had my gymnastic abilities been of a similar level, I can only assume I would have done the same.

And in the end (after a lot of cold water* (*Pimms) and some deep breathing), I got the position. If nothing else, a majority of some sort must have seen that I wanted the job more than anyone else. Granted, I probably could have been less frightening but such are the mysterious ways of sudden adrenaline rushes.

As another friend said afterwards, "Well... You were quite something." Which is always a nice thing to be, isn't it?

General Election, Lieutenant Live-Broadcast & Major Sleep-Deprivation

Politics has never been "my thing". Should it ever come up in conversation, I always rush to say "you can't underestimate how little I know!" before I embarrass myself yet again ("Like, how are you supposed to remember what the 'right' and 'left' even mean?"). 

But when election day came up even I was excited. There were two reasons for this: firstly, I am now allowed by law to vote, and it's fun to know you have a say in, you know, the ol' democracy situation. Secondly, our student radio station LSR had planned all-night coverage of the #GE2015, from the closing of polling stations at 10pm, until midday on the 8th. Somehow, I managed to convince my radio superiors that I now knew enough about presenting to cover the gaping holes in my political intelligence, and landed myself the job of sharing a two hour slot, starting at midnight. I could not wait.

14:10, 8th May 2015

The past 35 hours - because that is now how long I have officially been awake - feel like too interesting an experience not to share. It's been pretty hilarious, even if the majority of university now seems to be sitting under a Tory-hate-filled cloud, and if nothing else, how incredibly lucky am I that  my first vote in the General Election falls neatly into my first year of university?

With all its ups, downs, naps and some pretty impressive radio moments, I present to you: a taster of the past 24 hours - the UK General Election 2015.

General Election, Lieutenant Live-Broadcast & Major Sleep-Deprivation

19:25, 7th May - My friend and I hit Asda to stock up on treats for the night. We're like children, grabbing chocolate... and then we're less like children, grabbing some alcohol. We figure that we'll need a reward once our respective presenting and producing jobs are complete.

21:00 - I eat cereal and consider napping. In the end I don't. I will end up near weeping with regret at this choice, much later on.

22:00 - The radio office has definitely seen emptier days and it is already significantly above comfortable temperatures, but the atmosphere reminds me of a dressing room pre-show, so I am beyond hyped up nonetheless. My ears start burning red - the trademark sign that something exciting is happening. The colour of my ears continues to indicate my stress levels throughout the night... Put simply, they stay really, really red. At 10, the first show kicks off.

At some point after that - The madness descends early on as I volunteer to help record a bit of a spoof Party Political Broadcast that's being made for a show in the early hours of tomorrow. It involves unicorns, rhino-unicorn equality, and me pretending to be a unicorn... It's pretty surreal and makes me feel like I'm not fully conscious.

23:24 - I make another few attempts at getting as clued up as possible before our show starts. I now know what SNP stands for. JUST KIDDING ha, ha, ha, I already knew that one but I do have a serious revision session. Then comes the creation of a game which will later be a lighthearted intermission on our show: "True or False? Ridiculous 2010 UKIP Policies".

23:36 - Some surreal photoshoots (see above) take place which involve some unintentionally sinister politician masks and groans of "Oh do I have to be Nige again?"

23:58 - We head into the studio and get set up and ready for the next two hours. The exact schedule is up in the air because of the fact that we're reporting a live event - this combined with general nerves means 1) my ears are ON FIRE and 2) I start picturing all the potential blunders I could make. Like nerve-sneezing on air or accidentally referring to Farage as "bae" or something. I'm dithering.

00:45 - All is going well. We cross over briefly to a correspondent at a General Election party and I end up talking about pork pies more than I would have envisioned.

01:00 - Quite a few seats are announced and we seem to have quite a good set up as far as finding cutting edge gossip is concerned; I find a friend who is counting votes at Leeds Central and she tells me there has been a forged ballot - I'm far more excited than I should be about this rumour. "OOOhHHhh my god guys there's been a forged ballot apparently in Leeds!" Our political expert on the show gently informs me that it's not actually as big a deal as I had hoped. But they seem to think it's info worthy of social media and tweet the rumour anyway. I feel proud at my mini contribution. I turn my energy to Google searching "biggest ever politician mistakes on social media".

01:22 - I'm learning a lot. I'm asking the political expert a lot of questions. I try to make it sound like it's because I'm being an inquisitive journalist type, and not because I genuinely do not know the answer. (I don't ask him about the difference between right and left.)

01:25 - Our producer says I'm doing a good job! I almost cry.

01:57 - The show draws to a close and I realise that I am now free of responsibility. I'm quite sad that it's over so quickly. The only challenge now is to stay awake, and in a largely Labour-centred student environment, morale is low because of the exit polls. Adrenaline is keeping me up. We crack open the #BEVS. In a responsible manner.

02:43 - We hear there are tears in the Union bar as well as a Labour v Lib Dem physical fight. And they said students didn't care.

03:00 - The next show is well underway and my body seems nicely convinced that it's only around midnight so I feel hopeful about staying up. A friend makes a pact with me that we will stay until the very end, so I can't back out. There are rumours of an imminent pizza order.

03:30 - My body is so confused because I'm eating a lot of pizza at a weird time but haven't been on a night out. First world problems. Each hour, at half past, a "one minute rave" is played on air to enliven the presenters and listeners. They are a little more taxing to tolerate as the night rolls on. But then I find out that Leeds Student Radio's coverage of the General Election is longer than any other student radio's and that perks me up considerably, even if the actual General Election results don't. Very proud.

03:33 - "Tone Radio" of the Uni of Gloucestershire spots my tweet about LSR's coverage length triumph and congratulates us, wishing me good luck. I get emotional. It's just so nice to be personally supported by the University of Gloucestershire. I'm slightly delirious.

Yes yes of COURSE I later wept at the typo.

04:35 - Cheers escalate from the Union's bar downstairs so I grab a radio mic. and head down to do some interviews. I'm a little apprehensive after a weeny swearing blunder from self-titled interviewee "One Beer Ben" in an earlier segment from the bar, so I make sure specifically to tell the rowdy group not to swear. Two minutes in and one of them swears anyway.

04:40 - The noise in the bar means that I cannot hear the presenters upstairs properly, so end up asking the same question twice. Understandably, the interviewees are baffled. Someone mentions throwing dairy products at Farage. Coupled with a slight issue in the headset which means that I hear my own voice but with a headache-inducing half-second delay, I get another wave of "What on Earth is going on? Is this real life?" I panic as I recall a Scott Mills feature where he uses a SpeechJammer to make the speaker confused and cause them to slur their words. I wonder if it's appropriate to say "Back to Tom in the studio P.S. if I'm slurring I promise I'm not drunk it's just a headset issue..." I decide against it.

05:20 - I am starting to feel tired and every politician in the UK seems to be quitting. It's a low moment. Even though the sun is rising.

06:12 - There is a napping epidemic and people are dropping like flies. Someone is curled up on the floor on a pile of coats. A bit like a studio pet. Yet again, I wonder if this is reality.

07:50 - I am ashamed as I wake up, completely unaware of the moment when I fell asleep. I'm on a sofa. Luckily, it's the one in the radio office (and I was only out for ten minutes so we aren't counting it as a nap). My neck feels permanently crooked. Then the "rEaLiTyyYy???!!1!?" situation worsens as the aforementioned "Unicorn Alliance" broadcast is played. Someone asks if I was on helium when I recorded my snippet. I'm too tired to decide if I'm offended or not.

08:00 - As the 6:00 - 8:00 show ends, my Stay-Awake-Pact-Buddy and I finally decide to call it quits... Twenty minutes later the Leeds results are announced. But we made it right through the night and I have a seminar in a couple of hours and everyone is distraught and so we trudge home.

It was a manic day and a seriously wonderful experience. Huge well done to the people whose hard work made our election coverage the success that it was. I feel very lucky to have been trusted with even the smallest part of the process.

And I can now definitively say that you haven't experienced the true joys of a General Election in a student city until somebody says "And so then we threw packets of butter at Nigel's face."

"Made in Chelsea": Proving Reality TV Just isn't too Great

Once again it's that time of the year when the poshos of the UK unite to display some of their best, but mostly worst, moments and create one of TV's potentially most dull, pointless and yet popular shows of today. Yes, that's right, Jamie, Louise, Spencer, Toff, Tiff Tuff Binky Tinky-Winky - they're back in some combination for the show's ninth season, at which point respect must be given to those who have escaped. A well-deserved round of applause for the ex-cast members, who actually had something else going on in their lives.

Some have come further than others since the show's pilot in 2011. I miss you Caggie.

 I cannot pretend I hate it - it has its funny lines, and now and again I find myself rooting for the occasional couple - but with every season that is fired off (with astonishing speed) I become more and more agitated for a plethora of reasons. So I present to you:

Reasons Why Made in Chelsea now gets "all up in my grill*"
*particular thanks to Lucy Watson for that gem of a phrase

Reality TV is terrifying. It has all (and most of the time, less) of the entertainment of scripted shows, but without the ability to sit back at the end and breathe a heavy sigh of relief, saying "Ah well, that was awkward and frankly harrowing, but at least all of the action was entirely made up by a skilled team of scriptwriters!"

... Oh, no, ladies and gents - this is real. Enhanced drama, perhaps, but Spencer really did cheat on that many girlfriends in a row, Jamie truly is under the impression that he has both an attractive face and personality, and Louise genuinely does pronounce Jamie as "Jay-mair". So, taking Made in Chelsea as a prototype for the entire genre of reality television, I have brought together, in no particular order, nine of the worst quotes from the programme to express just why, of late, this reality show is making 'reality' look more and more like a bloody nightmare.

1. "I think fake tan is probably the most offensive thing in the world." - Rosie Fortescue. Just plain exaggeration, isn't it? I can think of a fair few things that are a whole lot more offensive, and none of them involve cosmetic products. 
   
2. "Fish give birth through their mouths, don't they?" - Binky Felstead. Straight-up promoting incorrect biology. You're confusing the youth of our country, Binks, try harder.
3. "I'm quite a private person." - Tiff Watson. That would be why she's on a nationally broadcast television show. Having every detail of her personal life revealed and discussed in great depth. Emphasis on the "quite", perhaps? 

   

   Tiff privately and subtly taking care of her personal life.

4. "J for genius!" - Jamie Laing. He tried to follow this outburst with a cry of "JOKES! JOKING!" but I can't quite buy it. Perhaps he was too engrossed in his 'business ventures' (read: frolicking in a sweet shop with minimally-clothed girls) to remember his English GCSE. Or, you know, the alphabet. 
   
5. "High street fashion is not allowed under any circumstances whatsoever!" - Mark-Francis Vandelli. Telling the public that their shops of choice are off-limit doesn't do him any favours, but Mark-Francis is excused because the majority of the show's comical gems come from him, and his catty remarks are rarely aimed at a particular person. 

   

   
   
6. "There's nothing more beautiful than a beautiful girl in fur." - Francis Boulle. Utterly enlightening. There's nothing more beautiful than a man who sits alone to one side of a room, surveying women and their coats. Also, a stoat and a mink somewhere would probably argue that there is something more beautiful: an animal with its fur still in tact. 
7. "Totes, man, totes." - Fredrik Ferrier. The true curse of reality television is the ridiculous slang. Even Joey Essex's 'reem' malarky must come second to 'totes'; say it loud enough and it sounds like you're warning your companion of handbags falling from the sky. "TOTES! TOOOOTES!" 
   
8. "Stop opening your f*cking fat mouth, you f*cking fat turkey!" - Victoria Baker-Harber. Was it ever alright to shout this at somebody? At a dinner party? At Christmas? Lines were crossed, because there's nothing quite like promoting the sentiment of "It's fine, I'm rich enough for it not to matter if I completely disrespect the humans around me..." to an entire generation.
9. "It's f*cking hard for me to respect you when you let me f*cking cheat on you." - Spencer Matthews. Will they get ill if they swear only once per sentence? This is the crowning glory of reality TV moments that make me want to slam my head into a wall. No, Spencer, why did you do it in the first place? Something has gone wrong when a faithful, stable relationship is the anomaly of a friendship group.

The appropriate reaction to everything Spencer Matthews does.

In the end, call it "scripted reality" all you like, but I'd still "do a Millie Mackintosh" and smack Spencer one if I passed him on the street. Victoria can try to hide behind a mountain of fur (while Francis sits in the corner leering) if she wants, but she can't skip home after the end credits and suddenly claim to be a kind human being. With every passing season, the show reeks more and more of gratuitous spite, misogyny and the message that life is solely about flirting 'n' banter... All set to an increasingly try-hard "indie" soundtrack. Soz, MIC, we've had our glimpse into the lives of the posh, and it's running out of entertainment value.

... Oh, and most of them are from Fulham anyway.

British Summer Hype: Is 10 Degrees Celsius a Nice Day?

We have made it through the winter. Some parts of the country get the message later than others, but it is undoubtedly happening, and rightly so, four months into the year. Wondrous changes are upon us. Miraculously, there is still some light when it hits eight o'clock. You can practically smell the GCSE students' procrastination vibes in the streets as exam season sets in. I have to endure Amanda Holden's voice with the return of Britain's Got Talent.

So now that you can occasionally step outside without a ski jacket, it's not rare to hear "we can't handle hot weather here", or "when it gets above twelve degrees, people act like it's tropical". As we get eased into summer, there seems to be a stream of disgruntled remarks about others' summertime behaviour.

Perhaps there is some truth to their complaints. The climate changes by a few degrees, one day, for an hour, and suddenly clothes are flung off and the entire country is skipping to any green space available with a picnic hamper, a lawn mower trailing behind them and the twinkle of hundreds of ice cream vans, awoken from a long hibernation, in the background. 

FIND ME A PARK

What kind of weather would have us launching ourselves outside for an impromptu sunbathe, frozen drink, or barbecue? Once more, I turned to my trustworthy peers to find out. After asking around a little, Jack, 20, comments that as a British resident, "any temperature above ten degrees is basically a nice day for us" - so I decided that this would be my starting point:

Is ten degrees a nice day? And is a "nice day" enough to whip out sunglasses and infinite amounts of skin?

At first, the bar is set high, and well away from the crazed Briton stereotype: Alistair, 19, says that real hot weather constitutes "sweating without any physical activity". Apparently, ten degrees is only nice for Autumn. 

The next suggested test for true summertime is "if you have a sudden urge to sit in a beer garden, that's your body ... telling you it's barbecue time". Meanwhile, Tallula, 18, claims that ten degrees accompanied by a blue sky would be a "nice day" but definitely not warm enough for a sunbathing attempt.

So far, this all sounds fairly reasonable. I am impressed by their rationality, and am forced to wonder: just who are the eager beavers stripping off at the sight of a gap in the clouds? I feel proud: they're definitely not my friends! So far, there is no need to be shocked.

... Or is there? All of a sudden, I stumble across the aforementioned beavers of eagerness. Beth, 20, says she has been having barbecues all through the winter, and one day in March it was sunny so - brace yourselves - she wore shorts! Other keen beans say they have been sunbathing already this season.

Meanwhile, heated debates begin, as one peer responds: "Ten degrees is f*cking cold, what planet are you people from?", and puts the bar for summertime sadness temperatures at an ambitious twenty degrees, when it becomes "acceptable to get the thighs out". 

Other criteria for summer behaviour include no clouds in the sky ("obviously"), and comfortably sitting outside without a jacket/shirt (actual heat doesn't appear to be essential). Ten minutes has been set as the appropriate test time for this. Eighteen degrees is mentioned a few times as the minimum sunbathing temperature.

Unsurprisingly, I clearly find no absolute answer. There is no agreement. Either way, most people I speak to are happy that warmer days are finally upon us.

And can we really be blamed for getting excited? For a country whose climate changes only from bad to dreadful, we are ridiculously obsessed with the weather. It's our go-to topic of conversation at all times. It's the fail-safe language of our nation, complete with its own colloquialisms (gusty? Brisk? Nippy? ...Tell me those are real words). So I would say it's perfectly reasonable to celebrate the turn of the season, and if this lapses in to going a little overboard at times, so be it. Let your neighbours shirtlessly flip a burger on a BBQ, embrace tripping over the maxi skirts swarming the high street, be patient with your friend who is suddenly prefixing her Starbucks order with "iced". Before you know it, we'll be back in the grey drizzle for another few months. 

... Zac clearly has not witnessed a UK winter.

How to CRUSH IT: Going to the Gym

It's a new year and everybody is hyped up on healthy. Gym memberships rocket, blah blah blah, we know it all. Yet apparently, in recent years, Britons have wasted over £35 million in gym memberships they don't use, while it takes Americans only 24 weeks on average to give up going to the gym after signing up in the new year. Which would be, for this year's New-Years-Resolution-Gym-Splurgers, coming up in the next few months.

So - and I think I'm being very observant here - there may be an issue with the connection between leaping out of bed in January and flinging your precious monies at a fitness institution, and then... Actually attending said institution. So I would like to address:

What puts us off going to the gym?

I wracked the brains of some fellow students to find out...

"I found it intimidating..."

"I do go... But only when it's quiet," says one friend, while another comments that he finds "you get people who look down on guys who aren't ripped". Both of them seem to be speaking for a large majority.

It's a common problem: therein lies (but only briefly, between crunches) a sea of girls with funky-print Victoria's Secret yoga pants or Blogilates gym tops, doing so many squats that if you held up a magnet, their now-iron thighs would come hurtling towards you. Good God, you think, they're so preppy and focused and driven. I can see the kale smoothies and chia seeds burning in their eyes! Abort! Abort! - Why would I even try?! You try to escape, but alas, you run into a wall of men lifting dumbells the equivalent weight of their own extended family after Christmas dinner, producing groans that make you wonder if an ambulance should be on stand by. And you feel simply inadequate.

What, this? Oh, just a light warm up.

Another friend commented that she would feel "judged for using lighter weights"; remember that everybody started somewhere. Yes, even the Taylor Lautner wannabe in the corner had a time in his life wherein he couldn't use a shoulder press.

Blast some tunes if you want to ignore the outside world - but tell yourself that it's not about what they're doing. And fake it 'til you make it.

"I don't like people looking at me exercise..."

Another common issue seems to be an expectancy of looking your best when doing exercise. Frankly, I'd wager most fitness experts would suggest that if you look in tip-top condition, sweat free and ready for a photoshoot, you ain't doin' the whole exercise shebang right.

Seems legit.

Peers have made comments such as, "I feel put off by the pressure to look attractive": from where has this idea sprung that going to the gym is about looking sexy or meeting life partners? It's difficult to enjoy exercise if you're worried about your eyeliner smudging, or your quiff careering off-center. Stop treating the gym like a runway, and take a friend along to be your delightfully sweaty pal. Break down those friendship boundaries.

...No, they bloody well sweat.

"I'm too lazy..."

Less often an excuse of university students, as gyms are likely to be a closer and for a discounted price, but numerous people reported that being lazy was still the main reason they don't go to the gym. One friend made the suggestion that attending exercise classes can solve this: "the person shouting at me was quite motivating." It's true: you're much more likely to attend if you've paid for one particular commitment.

Make your Future Self hate your Present Self. Book those classes. Set the alarm. If you think you'll regret being "too lazy" later on, don't let yourself get away with it.

"You need fresh air..."

Perhaps a less predictable response, but one that came up a lot: "I think exercising inside is weird", and this may be a solid point: why pay to run on the spot indoors when you could be getting a healthy dose of the outdoors for free? Others made similar comments, such as "I'd rather get the fresh air" - a valid point unless you're looking for specific gym-residing equipment.

So the only thing left to say is that if you get a spurt of motivation and want to be "a gym-goer", maybe consider if any of the above might be a potential difficulty. Then grab an action plan, make it work, and go to the gym anyway.