Dynamite Drongo meets the Dragon Lady :

The charge of the Barbell Brigade

Gaston De ROSAYRO

Move over Tarzan! Gangway Superman! If you don’t scuttle off the beefcake boardwalk you are bound to be ridden roughshod over. Yes bulldozed or muscled out the way by a battalion of beefy meatheads strutting their stuff on stage.

It almost happened to me, but I managed to side-step the charge of the Heavy Hunk Brigade. And all because the lumpish louts missed their cue and came rampaging on to the ramp like a stampeding herd of barmy bulls.

It was all part of a show put on to celebrate the opening of my friend ‘Barbell’ Bonnie’s Gym. I had been dragooned to emcee the opening. Yes, you may have guessed I am referring to the local Schwarzenegger types parade I was to introduce while they exposed their oiled brawny bodies to the vulgar gaze of the audience.

These chappies have spent a lifetime of wasted youth in gyms and garages pumping iron. And they stampeded before the band struck up the classic ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ military march which was their entrance cue. But someone in that brainless bundle of brawn had jumped the gun. I weaved out of the way to avoid being flattened like a pancake by the advancing mass of the muscular juggernaut.

As I did so my voice carried over the mike distinctly: “Pump and Circumference you doltish duffers!” It was a panic-fuelled spoonerism although quite apt in the circumstances. But by this time they were unable to contain themselves and were flexing those muscles and displaying the results of those physiques primed and buffed to perfection. Soon they began their routine of rubbing, caressing, and squeezing flexed muscles. As the posturing reached a staccato to the accompanying percussion of martial music some of the torsos appeared to contain writhing pythons. And most of their bodies ended up looking like giant bunches of grotesque grapes.

It was kind of narcissistic really the act of feeling their own muscles while flexing them and hoping that everyone else was admiring their shape.

And there were the ones who appeared to have gone way overboard in their training routines. For instance there was one hulk who certainly appeared to be in good shape. But a closer look and you could have observed his calves were muscularly retarded. They looked so huge compared to the rest of his build. And in contrast were two others with thickset torsos and toothpick legs.

I looked around at some of the women in the audience. They did not seem to be holding their collective breath in anticipation of the muscular posturing.

Rather they seemed somewhat amused in similarity to what one would have expected of spectators at a freak show. I turned to my co-compere Daphne, who I refer to affectionately as ‘Duppy,’ to observe whether she was suitably impressed.

But she had switched off her mike and was giggling uncontrollably at my unintended spoonerism.

There didn’t actually seem to be anyone in particular who wanted to gawk at the giant freaks and imbeciles. But for some strange reason the reality strongman shows have become a sort of accepted feature in films and entertainment.

After all it has brought bodybuilding subculture into the spotlight and propelled many of its proponents to stardom.

The funny thing is that these bulky bozos don’t even have the courtesy to dress appropriately to suit the occasion. They do not realise that a cocktail party, a wedding reception or a funeral is not a blasted gym. Indeed this was evidenced at the cocktail reception at the end of the show.

That’s because every social occasion has a few of these guys sauntering around, in tight short-sleeved shirts or tee-shirts when the invitation specifically states ‘smart casual’ in its dress code.

Besides along with their cocky posturing they could hardly be called stimulating conversationalists when discussing their favourite subject which is? Right guess honey! Bodybuilding and barbells which takes precedence over politics, the state of the economy or any other discussion which to many of us happen to consider the burning issues of the day.

All they talk about is dead-lift, squat, bench press, and overhead press to name some of their body developing exercises.

And there was this actor turned politico going around in tight shirt and pants flexing his triceps for the benefit of the invitees and cameras at every opportunity. He seemed to have had one-too-many as he approached Duppy who was conversing with a bevy of media women. He sported a lop-sided grin that was meant to be irresistible.

“How did you like the show he queried? You media people did not give me enough publicity during the election. Look, he said flexing his arm muscle while holding his cocktail glass in his other ham-like fist. Look! This is ten tons of dynamite, lady.”Duppy eyed him coolly and quipped with brilliant equanimity: “Yes we are from the press. But we don’t fancy being bench pressed. Oh, so you are what we get when you cross a bodybuilder with a politician? A back-bencher.”

The lumbering lout was livid and at a loss for words as he continued his muscular pose mumbling: “Ten tons of dynamite, ladies...ten tons of dynamite.”

Duppy gave him a contemptuous look and fired: “You seem to be bad tempered as well.

Look girls, Dynamite Drongo here is furious. Packed with ten tons of explosives and such a short fuse he is bound to explode at any moment. Let’s get out of here!” They made their exit in a gale of giggles while Drongo remained frozen in his arm-flexed pose like an alabaster statue of the mythological Atlas with his jaw agape!