I last ventured into Gibraltar seven years ago. A cultural experience it was not, but I always had a soft spot for an outpost that is desired by Spain, looks like England, where Gibberish is the national language and you can enjoy some proper bacon and eggs in the local Morrisons

Upon my return last time out, I had one of those heart stopping moments. Looking through the questionable quality Boots prints, I stopped dead. There was a picture of a man with 7 bellies playfully holding my daughter. I squinted and then realised this fiend also had the same baggy pantaloon style swimming trunks that I possess. The dawning that this obese, breasted man with more curves than Beyoncé jolted me into joining a gym and losing 4 stone in 6 months. Thankfully I have kept this off…until recently.

Like a drug addiction, sweets are loyal friends at first, but fair weathered come the dental trips and weight gain. I found losing the lard manageable and going cold turkey, a must. Farewell, my trusted nightly family slab of dairy milk and welcome in ryveta, mung beans and quinoa. The fat clothes went to those lucky recipients at the Peace Hospice and I felt a warm glow in the knowledge that there is a now a man with a 38’’ waist proudly strutting around the Borehamwood Lidl’s in a retro pair of pepe jeans.

Hitting the scales last week, I was saddened to see that I have put on 1 and a half stone. The never-ending diet seems to not be working any more so I took the step of vising the gym after a 7-year itch.

Getting past reception is exhausting at best. The IT systems never seem to work and the card printing machine is constantly on strike. You peruse the Gym Chic as you wait in your Adidas base layer that will require a tag team to peel off after use. The fancy dans have Asics, the newbies, Tesco basics.

It is intimidating for a man walking in these places. The cliques are well established and a bevy of men proudly stand lifting heavy things as they discreetly stare in pride at their mirrored biceps. Impressive maybe, but it must be painful to not be able to walk long distances or hold your arms by your side. Those who incessantly pump iron seem to die by the age of 40 and it makes certain parts of your body shrink, or so I have been informed. Those with Dadbods look shell shocked and visibly breath in when the svelte young lady enters their workout zone.

Still unsure of the etiquette, I jump aboard the exercise bike. After 20 minutes of slowly undertaking a stage of the Tour De France, I finally pass the start line and begin to sweat like Rik Waller wearing a black binbag in the Sahara. At that point the realisation dawns that I have forgotten the sweat towel. Unsure as to the form, I leave a puddle of sweat all over the bike as a gift to the next incumbent.

I then undertake a class called ‘beast workout’ on Sunday morning at 9am. I arrive to be met with a small crowd of middle aged women of varying shapes. After embarrassing myself by asking if it is a woman only session, the instructor, who makes me feel inadequate arrives, and begins to ‘beast’ the only male present.

Jesus. Wept. Not being able to skip, the first routing involves skipping, I stand by the huge studio window as gym users walk millimetres from me with hand weights which I have to pretend are skipping ropes. I feel like the boy with 2 heads in a Victorian freak show and nothing is now going to save my cool.

I spend the next 55 minutes throwing medicine balls against a wall and failing to catch them on their return, doing burpees, press ups and squat thrusts. A word of advice: Never wear short sports shorts when undertaking a ‘circuit’, and if you do, make sure you are wearing tight underwear, if you catch my drift.

Thankfully a return visit to planet beast is now off the cards on medical grounds. My chiropractor Alan, has ordered me to not do anything more energetic than the knee bend exercises on the chair that I keep forgetting to do. I am resigned to never being Twiggy again, but it’s not all bad: The local Metro has a BOGOF on Caramacs and I’m ready to rekindle my friendship with my trusted old friend.

Brett Ellis is a teacher who lives in London Colney.