Bobby Bond

I'm at the gym, on the incline bench - the one at an angle - doing chest.

There's a guy who I've never seen before bumbling about and he's the kind of guy who needs to be on a treadmillnot screwing about amongst the weights.

So I am heaving these weights up and down (you get one guess as to what comes next...)

Yeah, the fucking idiot, wanker, son of a bitch, words cannot describe how angry I am stumbles into me and knocks my arm back.

I drop the weight and grab my shoulder. It's fucking sore.

"Watch what you're fucking doing, Jesus!"

Thankfully a trainer is nearby and sees what happens.

This is good because it means any requirement for macho straight man-on-man pushing around and potential physicality is circumvented.

The trainer asks if I'm okay; I say it's fine, I think. It fucking hurts.

He tells the Wanker Idiot (my editorialisation) to watch what he's doing and if he's new, says he needs to sign up for an induction.

Good. Inside I'm standing with my arms on my hips, tutting and stamping my foot. Outside I go "yeah mate, you really need to watch what you're doing."

So I haven't done anything too bad, just stretched a deltoid or something. It's part of the shoulder.

Whenever I hear words like deltoid and bicep, I always want to do at least five minutes of Rocky Horror.

We do a few stretching exercises and now I am sat with my upper arm and shoulder covered in fucking Deep Heat.

And cue the Princess hissy fit..

"I have to be on a fucking beach in Cape Town in three months, looking like I just stepped out of the pages of Men's Health and this fucking wanker has gone and set my shoulder development back by at least three weeks. This is nearly a catastrophe. Ohmygod, my arm looks so under-developed in that picture. Fuck, there's so much to do....! Ohmygod, I yadda yadda..."

On a completely different note though - I actually feel good. All the better for having seen you...

Not now though - but 40 years ago, maybe...