Fitness First, but only after the depression

This magnificent slice of buttocky goodness assails my easily distracted eye on at least four separate occasions between train station and office. This unimaginative poster ad could easily be pushing holidays, breakfast cereals or haemorrhoid cream. There happen to be some words blighting the image - I only noticed these after about a fortnight of glancing at the smiling polka-dots as I passed by.
Ah, it’s for a fitness club.
An earlier ad for this brand, which ran just after the New Year, was clearly aimed at men. It had an image of a guy desperately trying to button his trousers. The slightly humorous message was simple: get yourself down the gym, Lardarse.
I didn’t head for the gym, but I did wheel out my exercise bike. The ad half-worked on me and, besides, swinging on my rubber tyre all day doesn’t really burn calories (and there’s no way I’m paying London prices for gym membership).
I don’t “get” the other types of gym ads. Male models showing off their pecs beneath the latest incentives looks poncey. That’s fine if you're training for a film about Greeks in bondage trunks massacring effeminate Persians in their zillions.
Then there are the super-fit female and male models laughing as they labour, sweatless, on the latest piece of equipment. Well, bollocks to them. The last thing I want when on the running machine is to listen to a couple of airheaded fuckwits who see these places as a social club. You want to talk? Go to the fucking pub.
As for Miss Polka Dot Pants here, who is she talking to? Not me – staring at a real arse in a gym will just get me arrested.
Women? Does it say that you COULD have a backside like this? This is assuming that you DON’T and that you ought to feel guilty for being such a fat fanny, so do something about it so that you can be stared at.
I’m all for fit bodies in ads, but please, don’t try and depress me. Let’s have more buttocks promoting chocolate, beer and crisps because, dammit, they are the good things in life.