IT'S enough for me that the individual who created the culture of jogging died of a heart attack whilst practising it.

In the karma of exercise this brings me to two conclusions: that either (a) God has a sick sense of humour or (b) the masochistic process of pounding the roads for miles has the air of tragedy and stupidity all over it.

With the recent report into the deaths of four competitors in last year's Great North Run, statistics seem to be on my side. Confirming a suspicion I've carried for some time, medical experts have now revealed that it isn't funny or brave to run for 13 miles dressed as an ostrich. Hell, it might even kill you.

I've never understood people's fascination with exercise. Pushing yourself to the point of exhaustion in the name of well-being seems a contradiction in terms. Over the past ten years, however, the sharp upturn for the health and leisure industry has created a niche market all of its very own.

For some, this has meant the ritual of grinding their Achilles tendons into the asphalt has continued to thrive. For others a new worship place has emerged at which their every muscle, cartilage and credit card number is catered for in an instant.

The modern gymnasium is the new social utopia, or should that be Hitler's bunker? Here, under the eye of Gestapo generals, sorry personal trainers, people are put to work on the sort of training regimes that would put a Foreign Legion soldier to shame.

There's something quite disturbing in the idea that the way to a better life is through a bucketful of sweat and a ruptured hamstring. Walk into any of these places and the moans and groans you hear are like those from a low rent porno. From middle-aged bank managers trying to recapture his youth to teenage poseurs searching for the six-pack dream, it's an orthopaedic and obsessive life accident waiting to happen.

Not to mention boring of course. The po-faced seriousness of most of these exercise protagonists is enough to send concrete to sleep. From their yoga warm up to their sweating apocalypse, every minute of their dull hobby is shot through with a kind of joyless elitism. Pull on a tracksuit or a leotard and it's as if their personality has been sucked through their ears. Look at me, they brag, I'm better than you because I have the same natural diet as a Bavarian goat farmer (but alas no goats) and can do 50 squats with a midget strapped to my back - which is, of course, incredibly useful in the everyday event of rescuing an injured midget from a burning building or other natural disaster.

In the normal nine to five world, however, in which I mean our world, the idea of doing anything 50 times in a row is non-applicable unless you suffer from Alzheimer's disease or are incredibly drunk... with a midget. Plainly, if God had intended us to wear training shoes he wouldn't have invented slippers, which is the sort of irony that's completely lost on individuals who utter phrases like "Feel the burn" and still manage to keep a straight face.

Worryingly, however, the buggers are now everywhere. From aggressive runners in the park to macrobiotic junkies blocking supermarket aisles, the exercise Nazis are goose-stepping and circuit training their way to complete world domination.

They must be stopped. If for no other reason than the term "joggers' nipple" has no real place at any time, in any language. "Joggers nipple". Remember those words. Remember them well.