Randy is a cliche in a sweatshirt. He is my new best friend, and coincidentally a lead fitness consultant. I go to Gold’s Gym on a free five day pass issued to me by Randy. Randy Ruiz. From his family name and general demeanour, I assume his Mexican father inseminated a Texan cow, and after gestation, Randy popped out. Randy is as subtle as haemorrhoids in an arsehole convention, and looks a bit like Barney Rubble on steroids. He constantly hacks and snorts as if he was born with spittin’ tobaccy in his mouth. He shakes my hand about seven times a day with his own oversized mitt as he talks to me in the West Ben White branch of Gold’s Gym. He laughs loudly (after a short delay) when I say something vaguely witty, and encourages me to think again about membership of the gym. His heart’s in the right place. He knows I should join his gym. For my own good. And he probably needs to keep up payments on his wakeboarding boat with the strap-on bikini clad barbies. He showed me the photos when we first met at my gym induction. It was if to say that all this could be mine if I joined Gold’s Gym.