I’M inside a boxing ring with Rob McCracken, in a world of pain and trouble. The former world middleweight title challenger moves towards me ominously, hands raised and intent in his eyes. Fortunately, the only jabs he’s throwing my way are verbal.
“One-two. Again. Nice and easy,” he intones. “That’s a bit better – you were moving around like Mr Bean earlier.”
“Vaughn Bean? Went 12 rounds with Holyfield in 1998? I’ll take that,” is my sharp counter. Or rather, it’s the sharp counter that comes to me four hours later on the train home. Instead, I just suck air.