The Man In The Leopardskin Trunks

A recent magazine article about Charles Atlas brought back a few memories. When I was 13 I had arms and legs like pipe-cleaners and a torso to match. I saw the adverts featuring seven-stone weaklings who metamorphosed into muscular hunks, and sent off a postal order for the dynamic-tension, body-building course. My only income was from a paper round but I’d noticed there was a money-back offer if the course didn’t work. My plan was to memorise the information sent, then request a refund. Very clever, I thought. However, my refund came in the form of a cheque and neither I nor my parents had a bank account. And, to my extreme embarrassment, the cheque was emblazoned with the words CHARLES ATLAS.

 

Without much hope, I crept sheepishly into the local British Linen Bank. I was turned away. But only after the staff had examined the cheque – and my weakling frame. I was saved by a school friend whose father had a fish shop and cashed the cheque for me. But I still feel that Charles Atlas was getting his revenge on me and was metaphorically kicking some sand in my face.

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