Motivation wasn't in short supply this weekend thanks to messrs Neville and O'Shea.

It could have been easy for me to fall off the wagon given an injury time defeat against the munsters.

Rather I chose to vent my frustrations than find a sorrow to drown. After all who could fail to do their very best at joyfully uppercutting a punchbag when they can imagine rat-faced Nevilles steptoe-esque gurn before them, and likewise who would fail to cycle on, cycle on, with hope in their heart at the thought of John O'Shea tied up by his legs being dragged behind a bike along a gravel track?

7 punched out rounds and 35km later I felt that defeat had turned into a moral victory of sorts, even if it was a day where points as well as pounds were lost.

On Sunday I ventured out to Chorlton for a game of badminton with some friends (drew one match, won another) before heading off for something to eat.

Looking for the healthiest option on the menu and re-hydrating with anything else but Guiness were alien concepts to me, and my calorific calculator was on overdrive.

'It's alright mate' said Andy, 'you've probably just burned off most of what you order anyway'. In the end I plumped for a light' mushroom omlette with salad and an orange juice. It filled me sure enough. Full of envy at Pete's fried egg and honey glazed half a pig combo with chips.

Back at home it was round two versus Neville, O'Shea and all of my manc friends' misplaced humility with 5 rounds on the bag and another 35 kilometres of man-boobs and beer-blubber worked off. Or so it seemed.

A morning weigh-in today revealed I've actually gained a pound from last week. How? I've no idea. I've lived on salads and low calory food all week. It's been probably the first weekend in years since I have gone from Friday through to Monday without any alcohol being downed. I've also been exercising like buggery.

The only thing I can think of to explain the weight gain is that the excess bull-poop spat at me this morning by my mancunian colleagues must have stuck. Oh well, another night of exercise to sweat that off. Not least because tomorrow will see me forgoing the bike and punchbag to go to Anfield where the last two European champions fight it out for the last eight.

At least that's one battle of heavyweights where I can take five...