Barry Balboa

I had a special, private, "boy" experience yesterday afternoon which, whilst underlining what I thoroughly sad individual I have become in my middle years, will still make me the secret envy of many other boys I know.

Picture the scene.

I'm in a gym on my own - one I'd never previously been to - and bored (as I always am when I'm in any gym).

There is only about half an hour to go until the gym closes, so it's unlikely that anyone else will join me. 

I look around to see if there's anything which might make my visit a little more fun. 

And there, in a dark corner, hanging from the roof, I spot it.

A punch bag.  A proper one, like you see on the telly.  My mind begins to race. 

I wander over for a closer look.  I give it a little push.  It swings back. 

I then notice a big wooden box a few feet away, full of boxing equipment.  There were full body guards, punching pads, head guards - and big, brand new 12oz gloves with Velcro fastenings (meaning I could put them on myself). 

Hmmmm.

I have my iPod on and know the Best of Rocky soundtrack is on there (shut up!)

I stand for another few seconds, before concluding  - why not!

And a couple of minutes later, well, you can guess the rest.

I have my gloves on, the Rocky theme blasting in my ears, and I'm snarling away as I pound the punchbag. (I would've slipped on a head guard, and perhaps even nipped home for my old rugby gum shield if I could be sure no-one would come in).

The Rocky theme ends, and Eye Of The Tiger comes on.

I quicken the pace, sweat blinding me.

Next up is the tune from Rocky II when Adrian wakes up and Rocky catches the chicken (I'm sure it has a name). And on I go.

However, by the time There's No Easy Way Out comes on, I decide there is, and go out - through the front door of the gym and home.

But what fun!

And what did I learn?

Only that I don't think I'm a very good boxer

But, for a quarter of an hour, a "boxer" I was.

The question is, what similarly pitiful experiences can I squeeze in before I reach 40?