The ghost of a wink flickers across Ulrika's jaffa-orange cheek... "Have a towel ready, 'cos you WILL get sweaty!" Ten minutes later, the towel is clenched hard between Lounge's teeth as we writhe in helpless mirth on a makeshift crashmat.
High above some impossibly picturesque harbour, Jonsson grunts along with a wincingly stiff aerobic routine lifted straight from the playground of a girls' infant school. "Don't forget to breathe!" yelps trainer Jenny, as two Midwich Cuckoos-esque 'helpers' mirror her every movement, expressions scraped into an alarming rictus.
"Er... oh yeah!" gasps our host, waggling her water bottles in the thin mountain air and looking faintly nauseous. Over a depressing Euro-house beat, she prattles intermittently about "reinforcing our inner bra". Hmm. There's a great bit where Ulrika boasts that her thigh-spreading ability was actually superior to that of the trainer, then goes a bit embarrassed. "If at any time you feel peculiar in any way," she begs maternally, "Please stop." Done.