I wake up at six so that I can be in the gym by seven. I don’t usually eat this early, but I force some fruit down anyway.

I’m still forcing my morning glory down as I make my way up The Armoury stairs. The smell of stale sweat triggers thoughts of the next hour and sorts that problem out immediately.

Blake is a PT specialist. He’s also obviously a morning person. Red of hair and chirpy -if he wasn’t a potent MMA fighter he’d be an easy target.

Anyway, Blake makes us skip until we sweat, then we’re doing drills where we have to run on the spot, do a pushup to star jump thing, throw shadow punches and keep on doing sets of this until exhaustion. Which in my case was an hour ago already…

Then Blake orders us to pick up weights and do really slow lifts in front of us, to the sides of us and over our heads. The lactic acid in my arms is bubbling and several times I have to drop my arms in exhaustion. Which is embarrassing because I’m holding a pair of rubberized 1kg pink dumbbells and the woman next to me, who is still going strong, is using the 2kg blue ones…

Rome wasn’t built in a day, yes, but I’m going to have to build up these arms quickstyles. Maybe I need to follow the advice of Pierre Spies?

* This is a photograph of Blake captured in a very uncomfortable position. I suppose that if you’re accustomed to being thrown around like this, mornings aren’t so bad after all.