Muscles Of Love

This picture was the prompt at Saturday’s Irish Writers Centre Workshop…

It had seemed like such a great idea. Take That were back together. Steps were back together. Boyzone were back together. Their reunion tours were so successful that bands who hadn’t broken up were breaking up and re-forming, just so that they could do a reunion tour.

Mariah Carey had split up with herself, but hadn’t gotten back together since she realised that she got on her own nerves.

The Chippendales got back together. Muscles were now flab, they had to wear gloves because they now felt the cold and hats to cover their comb-overs, but they were sure that women of a certain age would still be willing to forsake a night of bingo to whoop, holler and throw underwear at them.

They had tried to book the local parish hall to rehearse in, but the vicar had objected when he found out how they would be dressed, so they were forced to practice on the shore of Lake Windermere. In January.

They had been best known for their YMCA routine, the dance which most full-frontally showed off bodies that were once sculpted, but know looked as if they were made from play-dough.

It didn’t go well. The one doing the Y now couldn’t move his arms above 50 degrees. The one doing the M slipped on the ice the first morning and broke his wrist. The one on the end, doing the A, was not allowed by his wife to wear speedos.

The one beside him couldn’t remember the alphabet.  



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