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I never knew, until I took up badminton, why when cartoon characters are shown running, they’re always depicted with their legs flying round furiously for a few seconds before they actually start moving. Now I understand. It happens to me every time I go for an incoming shuttlecock that isn’t within the radius of my arms. I see it coming. I know exactly where it’s going to land. I start moving towards it - or I think I do. But before I’ve actually managed to move - too late. The Eagle Has Landed. A point for them, and a pitying glance from my partner for me. So how did I get started, and why do I carry on?

For most men approaching middle age, the obligatory taking up of a sport coincides with declining virility, the realisation that your best years are behind you, and terror of imminent death. Not for me, though. I’m still as virile as I was when I was 16 - I can think about sex just as well now as I could then; better, in fact. Nor are my best years behind me: I shall continue to lounge, loaf, and generally idle my time away just as skilfully as I always have. And as for imminent death - well, I reckon it’s a lot more imminent when I’m busting a blood-vessel on the badminton court than when I’m having an unstressful little snooze in front of the telly.

No, I took up a sport because my wife married me when I was 15 stone, realised I’d reached 20 stone, and told me she’d like to see a lot less of me. Not unreasonable - but I can’t say that one session of badminton a week is going to make much difference. In fact it hasn’t made much difference. As Chris Tarrant might say: "You were 20 stone. You’re still 20 stone".

Still, if badminton hasn’t done anything for my weight problem, at least I get a good cardiovascular workout once a week. Only trouble is, my cardiovascular system is as bone bloody idle as the rest of me, and doesn’t particularly want a good workout every week. It wants to see the second half of Monday’s EastEnders along with all the other parts of my body.

No, the real reason is the pub afterwards. The frantic expenditure of about 200 calories on the court is easily compensated for by the first pint, which goes down in about 4.7 seconds, while the second pint is purely for rehydration, you understand. We stop sweating. We unwind. We talk man stuff (Angie is an IT consultant and drives an MG and actually talks man stuff rather better than I do). My friends suggest ideas for Home Truths - like this one. Soon I stop hurting. Then I go home for 167 hours of peace, perfect peace.

By the way – I’ve started going to the gym now as well.

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