Guess what? My gym regime is a-crumblin'

I should be at the gym tonight. Should be huffing and puffing to stay fit and tone up that bloody blancmange.

Instead, I sit here counting down the seconds to when I can have a glass of wine and packet of peanuts instead, while watching a football match on the telly I don't really much care for.

And that's hardly healthy is it?

I might as well be sat here smoking a cigar while injecting granulated sugar straight into my veins, for the all it will do me.

One day, you think though, will not a good fitness regime ruin. Well, you'd think not. But this is me you're talking to. The man who one absence from the gym can bizarrely encourage a six-month sabbatical for psychological reasons I'm too scared to ponder.

Which means I now face more stress. Because I need to not give up this new-me fitness thing. I need to remain focused.

I need to get back into that gym at the weekend (work will now fuck with the two evenings left this week) and I need to not be penning to you, poor, bored, reader, about why I haven't gone back this time next week.

Fingers crossed, eh?