A sound thrashing has cleared my head

My first date with exercise in 2009 was a sobering experience — literally.

I even refrained from drinking the night before in anticipation.

I had agreed to a knockabout with my friend James in the squash court at the shiny Clissold Leisure Centre in Stoke Newington, re-opened last year in an exciting new asbestos-free state.

He wanted to test his new racket; I wanted the alcoholic slug that implanted itself in my head at a drinks party in mid-December finally to crawl out and allow me to face the New Year with a clear mind.

January ordinarily sees a rise in gym membership. A couple of years ago I did a month's trial at Virgin Active, and even then, taking a lift three floors up to enjoy gym equipment which replicated the experience of climbing stairs seemed a little absurd. Now, it is not an expense I would even contemplate.

I am not alone in rejecting them. Fitness DVDs appear to be the recession-friendly alternative (sales up 65 per cent on last year) and yesterday even saw Derrick Errol Evans, aka Mr Motivator, make a surprise return to GMTV.

Those unable or unwilling to spend their mornings watching a 56-year-old Lycra-clad man doing squat thrusts must make do with a frugal routine of credit crunches in the park, with occasional recourse to council facilities — which were all but forgotten as private gyms boomed.

The Clissold centre lacks nothing a vastly more expensive gym could offer. My mistake, however, was to run there — about a 12-minute jog. Despite the extreme cold and the tininess of my running shorts — which would have made Daley Thompson blush — I arrived wheezing like an asthmatic in Beijing, sweating a substance which smelt strangely of prosecco.

James strolled in, we took to the court, and so began my humiliation. Nine-love. Nine-one. Nine-love. (I fought back the tears.) Nine-love.
Now, I am no (please insert the name of your favourite squash player), but this was pretty lame even by my standards. After calling a breather, I made a late rally, losing the last game a mere nine-seven, which felt like a small victory.

As I walked home in my shorts, it began to snow and suddenly I was aware that the slug did finally appear to have dislodged itself. I felt good. I didn't even mind having abuse shouted at me from a passing car. Once home, I read gloomy forecasts for the year ahead without feeling in the least depressed.

Could such endorphin-fuelled optimism be enough to see us all through a bleak winter? Over to you, Derrick.