I told my personal trainer friend that “her people” (by this I mean Satan’s minions) were wrong when they said exercise was good for my body. I mean, the age-old adage of everything in moderation had to be true for all of life’s twists and turns otherwise my whole perspective on the world would have to be blown to smithereens right there and then.

My friend told me to elaborate and though I was acutely aware of walking smack bang into the middle of a mine field, apparently endorphins do shite for your brain cells which is extremely lethal for someone with my um well, limited brain capacity – but enough about me.

I told her that I was feeling pain in body parts that I was pretty sure didn’t exist in the species I have been led to believe I belong to since I popped out of my mother’s womb and how I was going to write to my local council and state that anyone who exercises a fellow human being to start “feeling” these body parts should be extradited (to hell presumably) immediately.

Now I know what you’re thinking, how dumb am I? For your kind information, my friend’s smirk did set warning bells clambering up my spine and though I did attempt to run in the opposite direction, the dumbbells she had attached to my ankles blocked my noble retreat and she politely asked (with a skipping rope in her hand that she had sinisterly changed into a makeshift whip that would put Spartacus to shame) that I drop and give her twenty.

Suffice to say I escaped with my life just to recount this story to you for witness purposes on the event of my untimely death. Got to go, she’s back …