Friday, July 13, 2007
Moshing for health

This weekend, Brigid's Blog heads to the Latitude Festival in Suffolk. That's not health related! you well may scoff, but if you've ever been in a mosh pit (the impression of a teenage boys sweaty nipples indented on your grubby t-shirt, the barest squeak of air entering your lungs, eardrums shattered, internal organs compressed) you know you need to be quite healthy to survive.

I am told this festival is quite delightful and a bit more 'mature' than other festivals. There'll be poetry readings, film screenings, gourmet camping and the kind of intelligent pop that you grow into after a teenage hood in your room listening to the Smiths and Nirvana.

The last mosh pit I was in, The Beastie Boys, resulted in an anxiety disorder. I was trapped in a mosh with a heap of rough blokes. We were cheek-to-jowl in a sort of a clothed group shag. Then the Beasties started playing Sabotage. The writhing shag got excited. There was mud. Shirtless blokes slipped in mud, pulling on the sleeves of others to help them up. The helpers fell on the people in the mud. A sort of human whirlpool occurred in the middle of the massive crowd. People were falling in. The people on the bottom couldn't breathe. The crowd behind us were surging forward crushing those trapped in the whirlpool. "LISTEN ALL Y'ALL ITS SABOTAGE"! The band played on. Would this be the end, I thought? At the Beastie Boys?

I lived. I'm not sure how. I am feeling ill just typing this. I haven't been near a mosh since. But somehow I can't imagine the same experience occurring during Jarvis Cocker's set on Sunday. Or when the Good, the Bad and The Queen play their lovely mid-winter-vibed melancholy dirges. I can however, imagine a lot of people like me, the anxious and afraid, enjoying the music from the edge of the fields.

This blog wraps up in a week, and although I would love to continue taking all of you with me on my 'fitness journey, ' sometimes there are times when you must walk alone.

The burden of taking my international audience to the grim gym with me each week was obviously a huge liability, inhibiting me from achieving my fitness goals. So like a sherpa discarding a white man's overstuffed backpack, so I must discard you all.

But stick around next week, as I cram some incredible fitness experiences into my blog (sour cream facial, horse-whip massage, warm coca-cola bath) and attempt to lose 8 kilograms in a week through the revolutionary orange peel and herbal tea diet.

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Welcome to the diary of a reluctant exerciser. Having previously shunned fitness regimes in favour of bacon sandwiches, Brigid Delaney vows to finally shape up, get fit and eat more healthily. Over the next three months read how she gets on in a brave new world of gyms, exercise classes and no bacon sandwiches.
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