It’s hard work being rich. I gave up trying years ago. You must waste money on everything, even the basics, to advertise your status as a big spender. Food and drink are easy. You buy organic veg from a dim-witted aristocrat at a farmers’ market. And you choose sparkling water filtered through the porous flanks of a Malaysian volcano. A tougher challenge is oxygen. The rich need top quality air as well. But how do you let people know that your breaths are costlier and more refined than the inhalations of the mob?
Well, yoga. Yoga turns breathing into a five-star indulgence. You hire a servant (known as a ‘guru’ to make her feel important) who stands in attendance while you fill and empty your lungs for 45 minutes. The snag is that yoga doesn’t involve labels or chic packaging so you must drop the word ‘yoga’ into the conversation all the time. No one in history has ever done yoga without telling someone else about it. And alas, there’s very little to say. Stretching, tilting, leaning, straightening up. One arm this way, one arm that way. It’s slow-motion pole-dancing for grannies. I tried it out. My local studio offers an introductory class for unbelievers at £17.50. Full membership costs £80 a month.
Eleven of us lined up on our mats as our guru entered wearing camouflage leggings and a branded top that said: ‘Make like a tree.’ She started with a warm-up. ‘I cricked my neck, I’m afraid. I can’t join in,’ she explained. Behind her on the rear wall hung a chart showing various poses and their names. I couldn’t read them, so I improvised.
The head gear. We eased our skulls backwards and moved the tips of our noses clockwise, describing a halo in mid-air. Verdict: quite relaxing. Makes you feel giddy. May cause a cricked neck.
The rush hour. Forearms knotted in front of our ribcages, we stood on one leg with the foot of the unsupported leg tucked behind the calf of the grounded leg. Verdict: good practice for crowded trains.
The spanked bottom. We bent double and touched our toes. We held this pose for two minutes. Verdict: agonising. Even worse if you snap your hamstrings.
The appendicitis check. We bared our midriffs and dug our fingers into a spot just below the sternum and massaged ourselves vigorously. Verdict: more or less pointless. If you feel a stabbing pain, call 999.
The big cat. We lay on our stomachs, hands thrust forward, fingers splayed, lifting our torsos proudly. Shoulders up, head up, chin up, like sated lions after a kill. Verdict: enjoyable for posers.
No one in history has ever done yoga without telling someone else about it
The vomiting student. We half-squatted, haka-style, gripping our thighs in our hands, with our elbows out-thrust. Then we snapped sharply forwards from the waist while whooshing out a deep breath from our lungs. We remained bent double for a moment before straightening up. Then we snapped over again and repeated the whooshing process. Verdict: helpful for clearing blockages if you’re a coal miner.
The Trustafarian. We sat cross-legged with the soles of our feet aligned, cradling our toes in our knitted fingers. We sat like this for ages. Verdict: good way to kill an hour if your private jet is delayed.
The childbirth challenge. We lay on our backs and raised our legs high with our toes pointing towards the international space station. Then we parted our legs to make a ‘V’. Verdict: extremely painful. Probably devised by the Catholic church to punish pregnant nuns.
I wanted to be given my score. Was I top of the class? Or had I failed to crush the opposition?
The starfish. To end the session we lay spread-eagled, palms upturned on the floor, eyes closed, as the restful notes of a thrumming sitar filled our ears. Verdict: blissfully torpid. Westerners call this ‘meditation’ but it’s known to Indians as dhyanam or ‘daydreaming’. Same difference.
Afterwards, everyone vanished while the guru posted images of the session on Instagram. I felt cheated. I wanted to be given my score. Was I top of the class? Or had I failed to crush the opposition? But I got no grade and no advice about sharpening my skills.
Yet I was ripe for recruitment. If the guru had said to me ‘That was the most impressive yoga debut I’ve ever witnessed – and I’m offering you 50 per off our lifetime membership’, I’d have signed up on the spot. Didn’t happen. No wonder yoga can’t match the popularity of the World Cup or Formula 1. The incentives are missing.
If I were Britain’s Yoga Tsar, I’d introduce a competitive element. Gold medals for winners. Public thrashings for losers. But yoga doesn’t care. The gurus seem to accept yoga’s status as an easy-peasy hobby for overpaid attention-seekers. And that’s why the yoga mat is so important. All my fellow yoga-holics carried their own rolls of sponge, even though the studio had plenty to spare.
Outdoors, the mat is worn loosely at the hip to indicate that the owner is a member of the elite. At home it’s not stored under the stairs out of view, but is positioned against the sofa or the mantelpiece to inform visitors that they are in the presence of a superior being.
I doubt if I’ll try again. Yoga is a quest to reach the seventh plane of enlightenment where the corrupt self dissolves into the cosmos. But to get there you need tons of ambition, drive and vanity. I could never manage it. My ego’s not big enough.
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