I’m Sick to Death of Phone Zombies Hogging the Gym

I’ve had enough.

Honestly, I’ve absolutely had enough.

I’m 50 years old. I’ve been training since my 20s, back when people actually went to the gym to train. You went in, got your head down, did your sets, grafted, maybe had a bit of banter, wiped the sweat off your face, and got on with it. Simple. The gym was for work. It wasn’t a social club, a lounging area, or some kind of mobile phone charging station with dumbbells.

Now?

Half the gym looks like a bloody airport waiting lounge.

Everywhere you look, someone is perched on a machine like they’ve signed a tenancy agreement on it. Leg press? Occupied. Bench? Occupied. Cable machine? Occupied. Smith machine? Occupied. And what are they doing? Training? Pushing hard? Trying to improve themselves?

No.

They’re sitting there scrolling on their phones for about three working days between sets.

One set. Ten minutes on Instagram. Another half-hearted set. Back to WhatsApp. Little grin at the screen. Another message. Another scroll. Another video. Meanwhile, the rest of us are stood there wondering whether they’re actually using the equipment or waiting for a bus.

And this is the bit that really gets me: why are you sitting on the equipment if you’re not actually using it?

That’s the part I cannot understand.

If you want a rest between sets, fine. Everyone rests. I’m not asking people to train like lunatics. But if you’re going to spend half your life on your phone, then get up. Stand somewhere else. Walk around. Lean against a wall. Go stare at yourself in the mirror for all I care. Why are you glued to the one bit of kit everyone else needs?

It’s pure selfishness. That’s what it is.

It’s this strange modern attitude of: I’m here, so this machine is mine now, regardless of whether I’m actually using it. No awareness, no courtesy, no urgency. Just this lazy, vacant, self-absorbed nonsense where everyone else has to work around them while they check their notifications for the 48th time.

And before anyone says, “Maybe they’re tracking their workout,” don’t make me laugh.

Tracking your workout does not require you to stare at your phone like you’re defusing a bomb. Tap your reps in, put it away, and train. We all know the difference between someone logging a set and someone watching clips, replying to messages, and basically living on the machine.

I find myself getting more wound up every week.

At my age, I don’t want aggro. I don’t go to the gym looking for confrontation. I go there to train, clear my head, stay strong, and do something good for myself. But these people push you to the edge. You stand there waiting, trying to be polite, trying not to lose your rag, and inside you can feel it building. Do I ignore it? Do I say something? Do I ask how many sets they’ve got left and prepare myself for the usual blank stare? Or is today the day it turns into an argument because some entitled muppet thinks common courtesy is optional?

That’s where I’m at now — and I hate it.

Because you shouldn’t have to feel like you’re one bad reply away from a row just because you want to use a bench in a gym you’re paying for.

There have been moments where I’ve thought, Say something. Other moments where I’ve thought, Leave it, John, it’s not worth it. And then a few moments — honest moments — where you can feel that old switch flicking and think, If this bloke answers me the wrong way, this could go badly.

That’s ridiculous. It should never get to that point. But that’s what happens when people are consistently inconsiderate in shared spaces. It builds tension. Day after day, week after week.

Now my mate Shaun, being a bit calmer than me, gave me some advice the other day, and to be fair, he’s probably right.

He said, “Stop boiling it all up and stop going in like you’re about to start World War Three. Turn the tables a bit.”

I said, “What do you mean?”

He said, “Put them on the spot without going mad. Make it awkward for them.”

And he’s right.

Shaun told me to stop silently fuming and start calmly, directly calling it out. Not aggressively. Not chest-out, nose-to-nose nonsense. Just simple, confident pressure.

Stuff like:

“Are you using this, mate, or just resting on it?”

Or:

“How many sets have you actually got left?”

Or even:

“Do you mind if I work in, seeing as you’re on your phone a while?”

That last one is gold, actually. Because suddenly they’ve got a choice. Either admit they’re wasting time, or let you in and lose their little private lounge area. It changes the dynamic. It reminds them the equipment isn’t their personal sofa.

Shaun also said something else that stuck with me: if someone’s taking the mick, stop treating them like they’re entitled to unlimited patience. Be civil, but be firm. People carry on because nobody checks them. Everyone else huffs and puffs and waits. That’s exactly why the behaviour continues.

And he’s not wrong.

The gym only works when people respect that it’s shared space. You don’t need to be a saint, and you don’t need to train like a commando, but at the very least have a bit of awareness. Do your set. Rest reasonably. Let others work in. Don’t colonise a machine while sending voice notes and watching videos.

It’s not hard.

I’m not asking for the return of some golden age where everyone trained like a bodybuilder from a 1993 VHS tape. I’m just asking for basic standards. Basic manners. Basic gym etiquette. If you’re not lifting, move. If you’re resting for ages, let someone else jump in. If your phone is more important than your workout, maybe get off the equipment and go sit in reception.

Because some of us are there to train.

Properly train.

And we are sick to the back teeth of having our sessions ruined by people who treat gym equipment like lounge furniture with built-in cup holders.

So these days, I’m trying Shaun’s way.

Less stewing. Less internal rage. Less imagining launching someone’s phone into the nearest protein shake.

More directness. More presence. More calmly making it clear: this isn’t your living room, mate.

Use the equipment or move.

Simple as that.

John.