My right knee has been done in. It hurts when I bend it. The Beast has told me to stay out of the gym. This may prevent further pain in my knee but it is proving to be a massive pain in the arse. Maybe the two are linked. At least there's some consolation in that; no matter what The Beast says, my brain and arse can't be connected as I'm not getting any headaches currently. Score 1 for me.

My knee started hurting last week Wednesday when I burned 800 calories - my new target as dictated by The Beast - on a treadmill, cross trainer and cycle, after which I looked like the slightly tubby result of a genetic cross breeding experiment involving a human and a radish. The knee ached slightly when I sat down and I ignored it for most of the day. When I tried standing up it felt like someone had whacked me in the side of my leg with a ballpeen hammer. I spent most of the week limping around like an unconvincing Bond villain. I'd love to be able to blame it all on The Beast, but unfortunately I did this to myself.

What I can lay at The Beast's door is a bout of projectile vomiting. I've never exercised so hard that it caused me throw out my lunch, but as I'm finding more and more in The Beast's company, there's a first time for everything. It happened after a particularly grueling cycling session with The Beast and X - the only other member of The Crazy Weights Club. X by the way, looked in about as much pain as me by the end, although in fairness, he'd only joined us expecting a quick cycle at the end of an hour-long workout.

We began with a 20 minutes of lightweight cycling - when I say lightweight we pedaled like buggery until we'd all burned 400 calories and the dashboards of our separate exercise bikes were soaked in sweat. As X tried to dismount, The Beast flicked him with a sweat-sodden towel.

"Where do you think you're going?"
"Oh come on," came the more than reasonable response.
"Come on, my arse! Back on the bike!" yelled The Beast.
"I'm tired," wailed X.
"You don't see this bitch complaining, do you?" said The Beast, jerking a thumb in my direction. "Right, off we go!"

We then proceed to do another 20 minutes, except this time we did 3 minutes on a normal setting and then 2 on the hardest setting available. During this time, FrankMusik's new number was blaring out of the gym's TV. To fully appreciate what we all went through, imagine pedaling up hill through quick-drying tar while listening to this:

At the end of this horrible, vile, disgusting and torturous escapade, we all flopped off the bikes, hit the showers and got dressed. It was only when I was leaving the gym I suddenly felt like Mt Krakatoa was erupting in my gullet. I barely made it into the men's room before a yellow stream of liquid ushered forth from my mouth and into the toilet, leaving the most bitter taste in my mouth I believe I've ever experienced. As I exited the cubicle I was accosted by a man who seemed equal parts muscle and hair wrapped in red spandex and a loose T-Shirt bearing the legend "I'm The Daddy!"

"Been working hard, eh?" he chuckled.
"Too hard, maybe," I gasped, wiping my mouth.
"Nonsense! I used to puke all the time when I first started working out!"
"Really, did you?" I thought, suddenly fearing for my life.
"In my old gym they didn't mind when I puked on the floor in the middle of workout," he said, staring wistfully off into the middle distance. "Of course, the wimps round here have a problem with that. They say it's unhygienic."
"Well, must be off!" I said.

I left the bathroom in search of The Beast? No matter what the side-o-beef with eyes in the loo had just told me, I was sure that puking in the gym couldn't be normal. I must have been pushed too hard. Upon finding that he'd already left, I furiously texted him.

JUST THRU UP! AND IT'S YOUR FAULT!

I nodded in satisfaction and put my phone away. As I made my way back onto the street and towards the tube, my phone beeped in reply. As I scrolled through the text from The Beast, my anger threatened to boil over.

JUST THINK HOW STRONG YOUR STOMACH MUSCLES WILL BE, NICOLA!
SEE THAT? SEE HOW I CALLED YOU GIRL'S NAME?
THAT'S BECAUSE YOU'RE BEHAVING LIKE ONE!

Mind you, what did I expect? In The Beast's view you can't make an omlette without breaking a few eggs and you can't slim a fatty without making him cry. At least he rang me out when he found out I was having trouble with leg.

"I was just calling to see how you're knee was doing," he said. "Any improvement since Wednesday?"
"Well, it seems to be okay. It feels..."
"Good, good," interrupted The Beast. "I've bought an Xbox 360."
"Oh?"
"Yes," he continued, "but it doesn't have any cables or a hard-drive. Now I know you have some spare so bring them to the gym tomorrow."
"Okay, are we training tomorrow?"
"Yes. A spare controller wouldn't be a bad idea, either."
"A what?"
"A controller, for my new Xbox 360. I know you've got a couple laying about. Bring me one."
"Right."
"Oh, and bring me some Xbox 360 games to play or your knee will be the least of your worries."