Torn between the rogue lifestyle of insecure unemployment, and the desire to eat in clean clothes, I decided to send off an application for a job – gasp – with the London Fire Service as their Fitness Advisor.
For those of you following my own training militancy, you get no points for guessing how I would train those fuckers and what they would end up looking like in 36 weeks of being succumbed to my sadistic methodology.
I filled out the form half-knowing that an institution wouldn’t hire a man with no address and a derivative of cummulo-nimbus for a second name. Hence the slightly passionate, yet tongue-in-cheek tone.
Here’s what I sent them: