Last week an unlikely relationship was discovered. You may think I’m talking about the one reported in the papers between the killer whale and the albatross, where the bird flies alongside the killer whale snatching scraps from its kills. But although similar in its unusualness, the one I’m referring to involves the big killer boxer and the little white bird. And, yeah you guessed it, I’m the little white bird.
The first sightings of this improbable relationship happened on Friday at the council gym in Brixton, or as it’s otherwise known, the sea of sweat. As usual, I was strutting around like a headless gull, going from one piece of equipment to the other. I had just finished flapping over having to adjust the seat on the seated leg press because one of the huge bull sperm whales had just been on it, when the killer boxer hunted me down. Now in the gym’s food chain, the little white bird is low, low down, basically in the anaerobic detritus, so I knew immediately that I had no chance as he propelled his heavy, stocky body over towards me, cutting through the sweat and testosterone with ease.
He got down to business straight away, by stunning me with his superior, tertiary consumer gym knowledge. “You know, you’re not getting the most out of that machine,” he said, loudly, with a hint of derision in his voice. Now in the sea of sweat what this really means is “You know, doing it that way means global warming is going to flood the earth before you get to shift that behind.” All the sperm whales turned around at once to watch this interesting spectacle. Even a couple of hammerheads put down their weights for a second and looked over. And the old turtle, upside down on the mat kicking his legs in the air, popped his head out and sat staring with his mouth open.
Now little white birds aren’t like puffins. We don’t preen ourselves before we go to the gym, put make-up on or wear the skimpiest outfits. We’re more like the penguins, who spend their time waddling along on a low setting on the treadmill, keeping their heads down, not wanting to be noticed. Us little white birds know our technique isn’t up to scratch and that the weights we struggle with, everyone else can move just by breathing on them. But we don’t appreciate this being pointed out to the whole gym. Yet at the same time, I did want to get the most out of the machine, otherwise I might as well be getting the most out of my sofa at home. So he’d successfully caught me.
And after killing me on that machine, he went on to kill me in lots of different ways. He was waiting on a client and had 20 minutes to spare, so he told me he could show me a few kickboxing and self-defence moves. I didn’t really have a choice as he summoned me over to the mats pointing out that it’s a dangerous world out there, and little white birds can’t be too prepared.
He passed me a pair of bulky great boxing gloves and stood directly in front of me. As I put them on, I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror. We looked like one of those diagrams at the Natural History Museum where the small human figure is about 100th of the size of the blue whale or Tyrannosaurus Rex. I reckoned I could fit into him at least 6 times. Underneath our diagram there’d be descriptors for both of us. His would read:
Height: 6.5 feet
Weight: 6 tonnes
Diet: On average 227 kg of food each day, including whole fish, sea lions, walruses and raw eggs
While mine would be:
Height: 5.2 feet
Weight: Lightweight
Diet: Tuna, chickpeas and rabbit food
He then looked me straight in the eye and asked me to punch him on the back, on the front, just not, you know, down there. He had good reason to be concerned about ‘down there’, seeing as because of the height difference, 'that' was almost directly in front of me. Now, I’ve never hit anyone in my life, let alone a huge great killer whale of a man. I stood there, finding it a bit of a struggle to just hold the heavy gloves up, when he bellowed the words “Come on, hit me!” from deep within, which came out with such force they created a tsunami of spit and sweat that swept across the room. The old turtle sat up startled, his mouth slowly opening and closing. I couldn’t work out whether he was out of breath or drowning. I hit the killer boxer as hard as I felt comfortable with, I mean I didn’t want to hurt the guy. Yet I soon realised that actually, that would’ve been physically impossible. Although my hand was hurting.
“Come on, harder!” he boomed again, and I swear a jet of steam shot out from the top of his head. This time I punched him with all my might, but I expect a gentle fart would’ve had more power behind it. “Look, think of someone you hate and pretend I’m them,” he said with a knowing twinkle in his eye. A series of people jumped into my mind; my ex boss, Boris Johnson, Paris Hilton, but I realised in that moment that I didn’t hate anyone enough, not really.
“Come on, hit me!” he shouted, goading me. To make him shut the hell up I punched him as hard as I could again and again. “Yes, good. That’s it!” he exclaimed, as if I was giving him a soothing massage.
It was my turn to drown and I stopped for a second to gasp for air. “Come on! You’re not even sweating!” he yelled. In that moment, I realised I actually did hate someone enough. Him. This time I punched him again and again and again and again, harder and harder and faster and faster. It must have been a funny sight to all the onlookers, watching a little white bird trying to knock if not seven bells out of a huge killer boxer, then at least the smile off his face.
Then when he’d got bored of killing me that way, he made me stand still while he pulled my leg up almost 180 degrees. He’d obviously mistaken me for a rubber chicken. “Aaargh!” I screamed, to which he replied that I had to get used to that pain as it was the biggest barrier to overcome. I was relieved when it was time to move on to the squats and kickboxing moves. By this time his client, a huge great beluga, had turned up and joined in with us. Despite his size, he was surprisingly fast. Every move I made, he’d made at least 5 minutes before. The killer boxer shouted “Come on!” all the way through and I did until I couldn’t take it anymore and thought I was going to create an ocean of puke in the sea of sweat.
While I lay gasping for air on the bed of mats, all washed up, not unlike a beached whale, his killer instincts quickly moved him onto the sale. I sat there, barely being able to breathe let alone talk as he went on about how he’d like to train me up and what programme he’d put me on. He told me he didn’t charge much as he does it to help people in the community rather than to make loads of money. He apparently teaches underprivileged kids mostly. And why? Well, it turns out that he was in prison for many years and since he’s been out, he’s turned his life around and is helping other people do the same. Like the killer whale itself, he’s been misunderstood and maligned in his past, but really he only attacks in self-defence and underneath all that tough, rubbery skin, he’s pretty soft and intelligent.
So stranger than the killer whale and the albatross’s or the rhino and the oxpecker’s, there began the symbiotic relationship between the big killer boxer and the little white bird. I punch his back, so no one’ll punch mine. He protects me from all the dangerous sharks out there and I help him to feel better about himself and his past (and give him £20 an hour). Although judging from what a challenge it’s going to be, I only hope I don’t turn out to be an albatross around his neck.
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