#biscuits

[xmarunex]

Been mesing with biscuit recently, tho Vaperon's tail and Espeon's head are both too big in my eyes, I got a good improvement from when I started (I might remake those in the future when I see a clear improvement)

[thejhaas]

[scavengedluxury]

Sainsbury's Morning Coffee Biscuits packaging design material, 1980s. From the Sainsbury Archive.

[fruitrollup56]

I think we should be using biscuits and gravy as a remedy for what ails us more

[scavengedluxury]

Sainsbury's Morning Coffee Biscuits packaging design material, 1960s. From the Sainsbury Archive.

[prunelya]

Sablés fleuris

[londonprat]

Anti-Fitness Club

Anti-Fitness Club Becomes London's Fastest Growing Club AFC Members Praise Revolutionary Workout Plan: Not Going, Not Trying, Not Feeling Bad About Either LONDON — Deeply Concerning, Finally Honest In a development fitness experts are calling "deeply concerning" and ordinary Londoners are calling "finally honest," the Anti Fitness Club has become the capital's fastest growing club after promising members they will never be asked to lift, stretch, sweat, jog, squat, lunge, plank, hydrate publicly, track macros, or pretend quinoa is a personality. The club, founded in a converted wellness studio in Shoreditch after the previous tenant went bankrupt selling £14 beetroot confidence smoothies, offers what it describes as "exercise-adjacent lifestyle support for people who know what gyms are but prefer them at a safe emotional distance" — a gym-mick, as one member put it, that has proven remarkably durable. Membership has grown by 400 percent in three months, largely because applicants do not have to attend an induction. In fact, attendance is strongly discouraged. A local radio host, reporting on the surge, accidentally described it as a "flab grab" rather than a "grab lab," a spoonerism the club has since, unofficially, adopted as merchandise copy. "We believe fitness should be accessible to everyone," said club founder Pippa Slouchley, speaking from a reclined velvet chair beside a motivational poster reading: NO PAIN, NO PAIN. "Traditional gyms make people feel inadequate. We remove that entirely by removing the gym." Press materials describe the club's mission, with committed alliterative flourish, as "Sustainable Slouching, Sensibly Scheduled." According to Slouchley, members receive a welcome pack containing a robe, a biscuit, a printed excuse, and a laminated card reading: I WAS GOING TO GO, BUT LONDON HAPPENED. The card has already become popular with commuters, freelancers, junior barristers, exhausted parents, and men in Hackney who own running shoes purely for queueing at coffee shops. An Unlabelled Bit of Context London's fitness industry has, for years, run on a simple national contradiction: gym membership sign-ups spike every January, attendance craters by February, and direct debits continue quietly for the other ten months regardless — an entire economic sector built, more or less, on guilt with a rolling contract. The Anti Fitness Club is simply the first business to say the quiet part in a laminated welcome pack. The Club's Signature Class: "Almost Yoga" The Anti Fitness Club's most popular class is Almost Yoga, a 45-minute session in which participants lie on mats and think about stretching. The class begins with controlled breathing, followed by a guided meditation titled Imagine Touching Your Toes Without Actually Involving Your Hamstrings. "It's transformative," said member Oliver Finch, 34, who joined after injuring himself watching a Peloton advert. "At my old gym, I felt judged because I couldn't do a burpee. Here, nobody knows what a burpee is, and frankly, management has banned the word." Finch described his own routine as "aggressively passive," an oxymoron he insists is the club's real house style. The club also offers Passive Pilates, Emotional Cardio, Chair-Based Ambition, and Spin Without Bikes — a high-intensity mental workout in which participants imagine cycling through Richmond Park while remaining completely still and annoyed at cyclists. A planned class called CrossFit Apology was cancelled after members objected to both words, in what staff are calling a genuine work-out-out. One instructor, attempting to describe the club's philosophy to a local paper, offered an instant malapropism for the ages: "We're not anti-exercise, we're pro-consequence-free, if not entirely consequence-free." Personal Trainers Replaced by Personal Enablers Instead of personal trainers, the Anti Fitness Club employs personal enablers, who help members identify practical reasons not to exercise. Sessions begin with the enabler asking, "What prevented movement today?" Acceptable answers include rain, emails, vibes, laundry, tube delays, mild hunger, excessive fullness, a weird knee feeling, Mercury, or "I saw someone jogging and it put me off." The club's head enabler, Darren Crisp, said his job is to help Londoners develop realistic excuses before guilt has a chance to take root. "People come in with weak excuses," Crisp explained. "They say, 'I was tired.' That's amateur. We work with them until they can say, 'My body is currently in a strategic recovery phase following sustained exposure to late capitalism.' That's professional." Crisp said the club's methods are backed by "emerging social science," which he defined, with a straight face, as "things people say confidently near oat milk" — a fit-nicism he's clearly proud of. One club regular, doing a passable bit of dry Miranda Hart-style deadpan, summed up the whole enterprise: "I've never felt so supported in my avoidance. At Weight Watchers they weigh you. Here, Darren just nods and says, 'Fair enough, mate, Mondays are a lot.'" Another member offered the kind of resigned Romesh Ranganathan logic that's basically become the club's unofficial motto: "I'm not lazy, I'm load-bearing. I hold up entire sofas for hours at a time. Try doing that with weak core muscles." Crisp himself described his role, in what he swears is unintentional, as helping members achieve "a real sense of closure" on their fitness goals — a double entendre nobody at the club has bothered correcting. Doctors Concerned, Members Rested Public health officials have expressed alarm that the Anti Fitness Club may encourage sedentary behaviour. Members strongly reject this. "I am not sedentary," said Amelia Frost, 29. "I live in London. I climb stairs when the escalator breaks. I dodge tourists near Leicester Square. I carry emotional baggage through Zone 2. That is functional fitness." Another member, retired solicitor Martin Quince, said he joined after a doctor advised him to become more active. "I asked whether worrying counts," Quince said. "The doctor said no. So I sought a second opinion from this club, and they said worrying absolutely counts if you do it with proper posture." The club's internal research claims 92 percent of members report improved wellbeing after cancelling gym plans. A further 7 percent felt "pleasantly smug," while 1 percent accidentally attended a class and had to sit down until the feeling passed — a genuine ex-Cross-Fit incident, per internal records. Londoners Finally Find a Club They Can Commit To Avoiding The Anti Fitness Club's business model is simple: members pay £89 a month for access to facilities they are never pressured to use — which analysts note is almost identical to the traditional gym model, except more honest. "Most gyms sell people the fantasy of transformation," said consumer behaviour expert Dr. Imogen Kettle. "Anti Fitness sells them the reality of February." Dr. Kettle added that the club's success reflects a wider cultural shift: "People are tired of optimisation. They have optimised their sleep, their food, their productivity, their skincare, their breathing, their inbox, and their standing desk. Now they want to optimise doing absolutely nothing" — a tidy rest-oration project, if ever there was one. Londoners appear enthusiastic. The club's waiting list now includes 18,000 people, although management admits several may believe joining the waiting list counts as exercise. "It does," said Slouchley. "Emotionally." Anti-Fitness Club Expands Into Corporate Wellness The club has already secured partnerships with several City firms, offering corporate packages for employees burnt out by existing wellness programmes. Instead of lunchtime boot camps, workers are invited to attend Strategic Stillness, where they sit in a darkened room while someone whispers, "You do not need to become a better version of yourself before 2 p.m." One investment bank has reportedly replaced its office gym with a room containing cushions, crisps, and a framed picture of a treadmill facing the wall. "It's boosted morale tremendously," said one HR director. "Nobody uses it, but they feel seen." The club is also launching a premium executive programme called Leadership Reclined, aimed at senior managers who want the benefits of exercise without the humiliation of being observed moving like a normal mammal. Influencers Furious After Club Bans Transformation Photos The Anti Fitness Club has attracted criticism from fitness influencers, many of whom rely on before-and-after photographs, sponsored protein powders, and captions beginning with "I used to hate my body." Slouchley has banned transformation photos entirely. "We do not believe in before and after," she said. "We believe in before and slightly more comfortable during." Members may post progress updates, but only if nothing has visibly changed. The club's official Instagram account features images of empty mats, abandoned dumbbells, cups of tea, and inspirational slogans such as YOU ARE ENOUGH, ESPECIALLY SEATED and FEEL THE BURN? REPORT IT IMMEDIATELY. Government Announces Inquiry After Realising Nobody Is Suffering Westminster has now taken an interest. The Department for Health, Lifestyle Targets and Unrequested Advice has announced an inquiry into whether the Anti Fitness Club is undermining national resilience — a suitably Whitehall-worthy alliteration if ever a department name earned one. A government spokesperson said ministers are "deeply worried by any organisation that allows citizens to feel content without measurable hardship." Officials are reportedly considering new regulations requiring all wellness providers to include at least one activity that makes participants regret their shoes. The club says it will comply by adding a weekly session called Looking at Lycra Under Fluorescent Lighting. Anti Fitness as Social Commentary Cultural critics argue the Anti Fitness Club is not really about avoiding exercise. It is about resisting the modern demand that every human body become a public improvement project. In a city where rent requires cardiovascular endurance, commuting demands spiritual flexibility, and buying lunch near Bank involves financial weightlifting, many Londoners feel they are already training for survival. The Anti Fitness Club offers a radical proposition: perhaps not every moment must be productive. Perhaps the body is not a failing start-up. Perhaps a person may simply sit down without downloading an app to measure the quality of the sitting. That, experts say, is why the club has succeeded. Also, the biscuits are excellent. Bohiney.com readers may recognise the American cousin of this movement — a Brooklyn "anti-wellness collective" that charges $40 a month to not attend cold plunges. Auf Wiedersehen, amigo! Disclaimer This report is satire, comic commentary, and parody news. The Anti Fitness Club, its classes, staff, internal research, government inquiry, and emotional cardio programme are presented for humorous purposes. Any resemblance to actual gyms, wellness brands, corporate wellbeing initiatives, or people paying monthly fees for facilities they avoid is entirely understandable. This story is entirely a human collaboration between two sentient beings: the world's oldest tenured professor and a philosophy major turned dairy farmer. Visit Prat.UK for more satire, London absurdity, political comedy, royal parody, and news that knows exactly where the treadmill is but refuses to make eye contact with it. Read the full article

[londonuktourists]

Anti-Fitness Club

Anti-Fitness Club Becomes London's Fastest Growing Club AFC Members Praise Revolutionary Workout Plan: Not Going, Not Trying, Not Feeling Bad About Either LONDON — Deeply Concerning, Finally Honest In a development fitness experts are calling "deeply concerning" and ordinary Londoners are calling "finally honest," the Anti Fitness Club has become the capital's fastest growing club after promising members they will never be asked to lift, stretch, sweat, jog, squat, lunge, plank, hydrate publicly, track macros, or pretend quinoa is a personality. The club, founded in a converted wellness studio in Shoreditch after the previous tenant went bankrupt selling £14 beetroot confidence smoothies, offers what it describes as "exercise-adjacent lifestyle support for people who know what gyms are but prefer them at a safe emotional distance" — a gym-mick, as one member put it, that has proven remarkably durable. Membership has grown by 400 percent in three months, largely because applicants do not have to attend an induction. In fact, attendance is strongly discouraged. A local radio host, reporting on the surge, accidentally described it as a "flab grab" rather than a "grab lab," a spoonerism the club has since, unofficially, adopted as merchandise copy. "We believe fitness should be accessible to everyone," said club founder Pippa Slouchley, speaking from a reclined velvet chair beside a motivational poster reading: NO PAIN, NO PAIN. "Traditional gyms make people feel inadequate. We remove that entirely by removing the gym." Press materials describe the club's mission, with committed alliterative flourish, as "Sustainable Slouching, Sensibly Scheduled." According to Slouchley, members receive a welcome pack containing a robe, a biscuit, a printed excuse, and a laminated card reading: I WAS GOING TO GO, BUT LONDON HAPPENED. The card has already become popular with commuters, freelancers, junior barristers, exhausted parents, and men in Hackney who own running shoes purely for queueing at coffee shops. An Unlabelled Bit of Context London's fitness industry has, for years, run on a simple national contradiction: gym membership sign-ups spike every January, attendance craters by February, and direct debits continue quietly for the other ten months regardless — an entire economic sector built, more or less, on guilt with a rolling contract. The Anti Fitness Club is simply the first business to say the quiet part in a laminated welcome pack. The Club's Signature Class: "Almost Yoga" The Anti Fitness Club's most popular class is Almost Yoga, a 45-minute session in which participants lie on mats and think about stretching. The class begins with controlled breathing, followed by a guided meditation titled Imagine Touching Your Toes Without Actually Involving Your Hamstrings. "It's transformative," said member Oliver Finch, 34, who joined after injuring himself watching a Peloton advert. "At my old gym, I felt judged because I couldn't do a burpee. Here, nobody knows what a burpee is, and frankly, management has banned the word." Finch described his own routine as "aggressively passive," an oxymoron he insists is the club's real house style. The club also offers Passive Pilates, Emotional Cardio, Chair-Based Ambition, and Spin Without Bikes — a high-intensity mental workout in which participants imagine cycling through Richmond Park while remaining completely still and annoyed at cyclists. A planned class called CrossFit Apology was cancelled after members objected to both words, in what staff are calling a genuine work-out-out. One instructor, attempting to describe the club's philosophy to a local paper, offered an instant malapropism for the ages: "We're not anti-exercise, we're pro-consequence-free, if not entirely consequence-free." Personal Trainers Replaced by Personal Enablers Instead of personal trainers, the Anti Fitness Club employs personal enablers, who help members identify practical reasons not to exercise. Sessions begin with the enabler asking, "What prevented movement today?" Acceptable answers include rain, emails, vibes, laundry, tube delays, mild hunger, excessive fullness, a weird knee feeling, Mercury, or "I saw someone jogging and it put me off." The club's head enabler, Darren Crisp, said his job is to help Londoners develop realistic excuses before guilt has a chance to take root. "People come in with weak excuses," Crisp explained. "They say, 'I was tired.' That's amateur. We work with them until they can say, 'My body is currently in a strategic recovery phase following sustained exposure to late capitalism.' That's professional." Crisp said the club's methods are backed by "emerging social science," which he defined, with a straight face, as "things people say confidently near oat milk" — a fit-nicism he's clearly proud of. One club regular, doing a passable bit of dry Miranda Hart-style deadpan, summed up the whole enterprise: "I've never felt so supported in my avoidance. At Weight Watchers they weigh you. Here, Darren just nods and says, 'Fair enough, mate, Mondays are a lot.'" Another member offered the kind of resigned Romesh Ranganathan logic that's basically become the club's unofficial motto: "I'm not lazy, I'm load-bearing. I hold up entire sofas for hours at a time. Try doing that with weak core muscles." Crisp himself described his role, in what he swears is unintentional, as helping members achieve "a real sense of closure" on their fitness goals — a double entendre nobody at the club has bothered correcting. Doctors Concerned, Members Rested Public health officials have expressed alarm that the Anti Fitness Club may encourage sedentary behaviour. Members strongly reject this. "I am not sedentary," said Amelia Frost, 29. "I live in London. I climb stairs when the escalator breaks. I dodge tourists near Leicester Square. I carry emotional baggage through Zone 2. That is functional fitness." Another member, retired solicitor Martin Quince, said he joined after a doctor advised him to become more active. "I asked whether worrying counts," Quince said. "The doctor said no. So I sought a second opinion from this club, and they said worrying absolutely counts if you do it with proper posture." The club's internal research claims 92 percent of members report improved wellbeing after cancelling gym plans. A further 7 percent felt "pleasantly smug," while 1 percent accidentally attended a class and had to sit down until the feeling passed — a genuine ex-Cross-Fit incident, per internal records. Londoners Finally Find a Club They Can Commit To Avoiding The Anti Fitness Club's business model is simple: members pay £89 a month for access to facilities they are never pressured to use — which analysts note is almost identical to the traditional gym model, except more honest. "Most gyms sell people the fantasy of transformation," said consumer behaviour expert Dr. Imogen Kettle. "Anti Fitness sells them the reality of February." Dr. Kettle added that the club's success reflects a wider cultural shift: "People are tired of optimisation. They have optimised their sleep, their food, their productivity, their skincare, their breathing, their inbox, and their standing desk. Now they want to optimise doing absolutely nothing" — a tidy rest-oration project, if ever there was one. Londoners appear enthusiastic. The club's waiting list now includes 18,000 people, although management admits several may believe joining the waiting list counts as exercise. "It does," said Slouchley. "Emotionally." Anti-Fitness Club Expands Into Corporate Wellness The club has already secured partnerships with several City firms, offering corporate packages for employees burnt out by existing wellness programmes. Instead of lunchtime boot camps, workers are invited to attend Strategic Stillness, where they sit in a darkened room while someone whispers, "You do not need to become a better version of yourself before 2 p.m." One investment bank has reportedly replaced its office gym with a room containing cushions, crisps, and a framed picture of a treadmill facing the wall. "It's boosted morale tremendously," said one HR director. "Nobody uses it, but they feel seen." The club is also launching a premium executive programme called Leadership Reclined, aimed at senior managers who want the benefits of exercise without the humiliation of being observed moving like a normal mammal. Influencers Furious After Club Bans Transformation Photos The Anti Fitness Club has attracted criticism from fitness influencers, many of whom rely on before-and-after photographs, sponsored protein powders, and captions beginning with "I used to hate my body." Slouchley has banned transformation photos entirely. "We do not believe in before and after," she said. "We believe in before and slightly more comfortable during." Members may post progress updates, but only if nothing has visibly changed. The club's official Instagram account features images of empty mats, abandoned dumbbells, cups of tea, and inspirational slogans such as YOU ARE ENOUGH, ESPECIALLY SEATED and FEEL THE BURN? REPORT IT IMMEDIATELY. Government Announces Inquiry After Realising Nobody Is Suffering Westminster has now taken an interest. The Department for Health, Lifestyle Targets and Unrequested Advice has announced an inquiry into whether the Anti Fitness Club is undermining national resilience — a suitably Whitehall-worthy alliteration if ever a department name earned one. A government spokesperson said ministers are "deeply worried by any organisation that allows citizens to feel content without measurable hardship." Officials are reportedly considering new regulations requiring all wellness providers to include at least one activity that makes participants regret their shoes. The club says it will comply by adding a weekly session called Looking at Lycra Under Fluorescent Lighting. Anti Fitness as Social Commentary Cultural critics argue the Anti Fitness Club is not really about avoiding exercise. It is about resisting the modern demand that every human body become a public improvement project. In a city where rent requires cardiovascular endurance, commuting demands spiritual flexibility, and buying lunch near Bank involves financial weightlifting, many Londoners feel they are already training for survival. The Anti Fitness Club offers a radical proposition: perhaps not every moment must be productive. Perhaps the body is not a failing start-up. Perhaps a person may simply sit down without downloading an app to measure the quality of the sitting. That, experts say, is why the club has succeeded. Also, the biscuits are excellent. Bohiney.com readers may recognise the American cousin of this movement — a Brooklyn "anti-wellness collective" that charges $40 a month to not attend cold plunges. Auf Wiedersehen, amigo! Disclaimer This report is satire, comic commentary, and parody news. The Anti Fitness Club, its classes, staff, internal research, government inquiry, and emotional cardio programme are presented for humorous purposes. Any resemblance to actual gyms, wellness brands, corporate wellbeing initiatives, or people paying monthly fees for facilities they avoid is entirely understandable. This story is entirely a human collaboration between two sentient beings: the world's oldest tenured professor and a philosophy major turned dairy farmer. Visit Prat.UK for more satire, London absurdity, political comedy, royal parody, and news that knows exactly where the treadmill is but refuses to make eye contact with it. Read the full article