29/08/2025
Johnny’s Gym Chronicles:
Gary ‘The Machine’ Ralston Brings Stirling Uni to Its Knees
There are moments in life that redefine a man. For Muhammad Ali, it was the Rumble in the Jungle. For Andy Murray, it was Centre Court in 2013. For Gary Ralston, it was a 7am showdown with gravity, dumbbells, and a decline bench at Stirling University gym.
The former Daily Record sports writer, Scottish Government comms chief, and published author has built a career out of words. But this morning, Gary spoke a different language: grunts, groans, and a sound that can only be described as “angry kettle.”
Your correspondent, one Johnny Dreczkowski — endurance cyclist, Ironman-in-training, and MBE-to-be (no biggie) — had the privilege of witnessing a masterclass in sheer bloody-mindedness. We turned up before sunrise, two men on a mission: to sculpt biceps like Chris Hoy, shoulders like Atlas, and abs you could serve your dinner off. Gary, armed with nothing but courage and caffeine, went to work.
Our warm-up was simple: 4 x 6 x 10 reps of soul-crushing exercises. Bicep curls? Done. Tricep pulls? Child’s play. Pull-ups to exhaustion? Gary hung from the bar like a Glaswegian sloth with a grudge, powering through until the laws of physics filed a formal complaint. Decline bench presses? He pushed that barbell as if it owed him money.
The Stirling Uni students, bleary-eyed and clutching protein shakes, stood in awe. “Isn’t that the guy who used to write about the SPL?” one whispered, watching Gary summon the strength of a thousand column inches. “Aye,” said another, “and now he’s writing a new story… with his pecs.”
Each set was punctuated by Gary’s trademark commentary, a mix of sports journalism and battlefield reporting. “It’s the 93rd minute at Parkhead,” he muttered through clenched teeth as he hoisted the weights. “Ralston’s in the box, and oh my days, he’s buried it!”
By the time we hit abs, I was sweating buckets, but Gary was on another level entirely — drenched in determination, roaring like a man possessed. “Decline sit-ups are just journalism in motion,” he gasped. “You start low, you rise dramatically, and someone always ends up crying.”
When we finally collapsed on the mats, gym staff offered us towels, water, and possibly counselling. Gary, ever the professional, brushed it off. “We’re just getting started,” he said, standing tall, chest out, arms trembling like jelly in a hurricane.
Ladies and gentlemen, Stirling has witnessed many feats of human endeavour — knights at the castle, Wallace at the bridge — but none compare to Gary Ralston versus the Dumbbell Rack of Doom. He came, he lifted, he conquered.
As we left, the sun rising over the Ochils, Gary offered a parting shot worthy of a back page headline:
“Same time tomorrow, Johnny?”
I nodded, silently vowing never to underestimate this man again.