In a development that has sent shockwaves through the international community and several lesser-known gym chains, a crack team of British boffins has announced they are leading the global charge to design gym equipment for astronauts. Yes, you read that correctly. While the rest of the world frets about climate change, the price of tea, or the alarming proliferation of reality television, our finest scientific minds have turned their formidable intellects to the pressing problem of: how do you get a decent pump in zero gravity?
The announcement came from the UK Space Agency, a body that has clearly decided that if we cannot afford to actually send astronauts into space on a regular basis, we can at least ensure that when they do eventually get there, they will be buff. Never mind that the Sun is expanding, that our political system is a shambles, or that the average wait time for an NHS appointment is now longer than the average human lifespan. No, no, right now the priority is ensuring that Commander Tight-Arse can still leg press in the heavens.
According to the press release, the equipment will use 'magnetic resistance' and 'centrifugal force' to allow astronauts to exercise without floating away. This is, of course, absolute nonsense. Everyone knows that the only magnetic resistance in space is the magnetic resistance to paying taxes, and the only centrifugal force is the force required to get through a Centrifugal* of gin before the shuttle launches. But I digress. The scientists, presumably all named Nigel and wearing tweed jackets with elbow patches, claim that muscle atrophy in microgravity is a serious concern. Apparently, if you don't lift heavy things in space, your bones turn to cheese. This I believe. But the solution they propose is, and I say this with the utmost respect for my intellectual betters, utterly barking mad.
They propose a 'smart resistance' system that adapts to the user's movements. In other words, a machine that knows when you are cheating on your reps. The horror. The sheer Orwellian nightmare of a machine that judges you, and judges you harshly, in the silent vacuum of space. I can see it now: 'Welcome to the ISS gym, Cadet. Today we will be leg-curling for the motherland. Do not disappoint the machine.' Combine this with the intense psychological stress of being trapped in a tin can with three other people, and the overwhelming desire to just have a single gin and tonic, and you have a recipe for absolute madness. But I suppose that is exactly what the taxpayer's money is for: to fund this magnificent folly.
But let us not lose sight of the real scandal here. This news comes hot on the heels of a report that British astronauts, of which we have a scant few, spend more time training for media appearances than they do actually flying into space. So the real purpose of this research is arguably not to keep astronauts healthy, but to keep them occupied while they pretend to be in space for the benefit of the BBC. It is a grand simulacrum, a theatre of fitness. They will cycle on magnetic bikes while staring at a green screen, and the good people of Britain will feel that their taxes have been well spent. And perhaps they have. After all, what is the cost of a few million pounds compared to the existential dread of a flabby astronaut? I shudder to think.
I recall, with a fondness that borders on the maudlin, a similar project from the 1970s that proposed using giant spinning wheels to generate gravity in space stations. It was called the 'Torus,' and it was meant to be the future. Instead, we got Skylab, which leaked urine into space and fell to Earth in bits. The lesson, as ever, is that British engineering is a magnificent, doomed thing. We build the finest gym equipment for a void that no one will ever visit. We are marvellous.
So let us raise a glass of aeroplane duty-free gin to the UK Space Agency. They have given us a story so wonderfully, so gloriously pointless that it almost makes up for the price of a train ticket. Almost. But then, I suppose that is the beauty of it. In a world gone mad, the only sensible response is to design a cross-trainer for a man floating in a tin can. God save the King, and may his pecs be ever firm.
