I've been and gone and done the unthinkable - I've joined a gym. In an attempt to extend that rotten little sentence that passes for a life, I've paid £299 for three months of swimming, steaming, treadmilling, weightlifting, and meeting a rich young widow.
The lumpen, lardy, beer-bellied Moore that some of you know but many of you have loved, will be transformed into a chiselled, solid mass of muscle, sinew and machismo - unforgiving in its manly brutality, irresistible to both sexes, revitalised mentally to start a small business that makes a good return in its first year, and looking to buy a BMW convertible and take three holidays a year. If none of these happen, I'm down three tons and will have to torch the place.
The beauty of my new regime is that the gym is literally 200 feet from my door - and much closer than the pub, which I was on my way to when inspiration struck. I got the tour on Thursday night, wearing a distressed seersucker suit and reeking of wine. When asked why I wanted to join, I put my hand on my heart and declared: "I want to live."
As a lucky recipient of the old bipolar disorder - which used to be called manic depression, which used to be called melancholy, or even mental illness - my new doctor made the extraordinary suggestion that I get a bit of exercise. Jerome bloody K Jerome here we go! He did say to avoid the river or I'd be suffering from a lot more that our most common affliction, but you know, fair play to him, good idea. He did double the antidepressants as well, but nobody likes to find a suicide on the heath.
Anyway, I've got to visit a sports shop to buy shorts and plimsolls - can you still get old-fashioned non-branded PE plimsolls with the elasticated tongue? In no time, I expect I'll get talking to jocks in the changing room, offered a top dollar job, and be working in the city - bringing down a million pound bonus. Alternatively, I would like to invite you all to my funeral.
