It's been quite a few weeks since I was last here, and thankfully the muscle tear in my calf from an over-excited kickboxing session has finally healed.

I've been through extensive physiotherapy over the last six weeks, on referral by my GP, and heavens, have I discovered a whole new world of hot totty, or what? The gym has always had its fair share of lickable flexing torsos, but there's something off-putting about these mirror-obsessed, narcissistic gym bunnies who would rather glance over their own ripples of seductive flesh than yours. Harumf. The Physiotherapist, however, is an entirely different breed.

On my first session I was quite amazed at how handsome everyone in the building was - even the old bird on reception had a youthful look of Elizabeth Taylor about her. But it was the boys that really caught me off guard. Fit, fair, and clear skinned young men giving you their utmost attention, with an impressive view of their pert bottoms and snugly fit white t-shirts. Talk about pain control. And all before the actual session started.

Hmmm, there's really nothing for it - I might just have to go and kick the shit out of a brick wall and cause myself some more damage... Trust me, it'd be worth it.