The obituaries are flooding in, each one a little more reverent than the last. Les Mills, the four-time Olympian and founder of the global fitness empire that bears his name, has died at 91. And the British establishment, ever eager to claim a piece of sporting glory, is tripping over itself to offer tributes. But allow me to be the contrarian at the memorial service: what does Les Mills tell us about our own cultural moment?
Mills was a man of New Zealand, not Britain, but his fitness programmes – BodyPump, BodyCombat, RPM – became as ubiquitous in British leisure centres as soggy chips and lukewarm showers. He took the gym from a place of solitary grunting and turned it into a choreographed collective experience: a sort of secular church of endorphins. And that, I think, is his real legacy. Not the medals, but the method.
But let us pause and consider the historical parallel. Mills rose to prominence in the 1960s and 70s, a time when the West was supposedly in intellectual and moral decline – the era of 'decadence' that conservatives love to lament. Yet here was a man who preached discipline, repetition, and physical exertion. In a world of rock-and-roll rebellion and anti-establishment sentiment, Mills offered structure. His classes were a rebellion against sloth, not against society.
Today, we live in an age of unprecedented sloth – or rather, unprecedented comfort. We sit at desks, stare at screens, and our biggest physical challenge is walking to the coffee machine. And yet, we are also obsessed with fitness. But it is a peculiar, narcissistic fitness: Instagram posts of gym selfies, juice cleanses, and marathon sponsorships that serve as status symbols rather than genuine athletic endeavours. Mills, by contrast, came from an era when sport was about competition, not self-branding. He ran for New Zealand in the 1954 Empire Games, the 1958 Commonwealth Games, and three Olympics. He knew what it meant to push your body to its limits for national pride, not for likes.
And that is the crux of it, is it not? Our sports legacy leaders sicken me, not because they are bad at what they do, but because they are so utterly hollow. Sir Chris Hoy, Dame Jessica Ennis-Hill, Sir Mo Farah – they are parade floats for a nation that has long since abandoned the values they supposedly embody. We cheer their victories, buy their books, and then return to our sedentary lives. Mills, meanwhile, built a system that got people off their backsides. It was not about individual glory. It was about the collective: a room full of people moving to a beat, sweating together.
I am not so naive as to ignore the corporatisation of fitness. Les Mills International is a multi-million dollar operation, and his daughter Diana Mills runs the show: a classic dynastic transfer. But perhaps there is a lesson here about legacy. Mills did not just leave behind medals. He left behind a discipline. He left behind a way of life. And our own 'legacy leaders' – the Sirs and Dames who dominate the sports pages – what will they leave behind? A few gold medals gathering dust in a museum? A generation of children who are told they can 'be anything' but who grow up to be soft and addicted to their phones?
No. Les Mills' death is not just an occasion for sycophantic tribute. It is a moment to reflect on what we have lost: the idea that physical fitness is not a lifestyle choice but a moral duty. The Victorians understood this: a sound mind in a sound body. Mills understood it too. And now, as we shuffle into our gyms, following the instructions of a video screen that mimics his programmes, we should remember that the man himself was not a hologram. He was real. He was tough. And he would probably look at us and laugh: we are so much weaker, so much less resilient, and so much more pathetic.
Rest in peace, Les Mills. You deserved better than a nation of soft-handed eulogisers.
