She thinks “I cannot imagine anything I would like to do less”

MRS MILLARD

Graham Boylan is an extraordinarily muscle-bound twenty-something man who has clearly not spent enough time beating the living daylights out of people in the amateur boxing circuit. Now he wants to teach us ordinary people how to do it. Even though he’s just had a nosebleed, Mr Millard is very excited, and, on arrival, starts taping up his hands with fervour. “How long is the session?” I ask Boylan, who comes from Cork and whose body is festooned with baroque tattooes. “An hour. You’ll have a grand time,” he smiles, handing me yards of tape and some cartoon-style boxing gloves. There are about 30 of us in the studio, within an echoing gym in Covent Garden. How I would love to be 100 yards off at the Royal Opera House. Everyone starts skipping madly, while Boylan explains to us new bugs what “stance” we must adopt. Apparently orthodox (for right-handers) or something called southfork (southpaw, for lefties) are the choices. I have no idea what he’s on about. I stand in what I think is a reasonably aggressive way. “Now, jab! Left hand out, and in.” Boylan punches the air with impressive speed. Note to self: keep away from the vicinity of that fist. “Your feet are the wrong way round, Rosie,” says Boylan. “That is if you are orthodox. Are you?” Mr Millard sniggers. I really don’t want to do this. I don’t admire boxing and could probably get just as fit doing a step class. “Your sons would love this,” Boylan grins. I remark acidly that I will never allow my two gorgeous boys to box. His grin only widens. We split up into two groups, one male, one female. Us chicks get down on the mats and start doing furious press-ups. Then we hold hands in pairs and jump up and down. Then we jog on the spot. It’s exhausting. My fellow girl boxers all seem to be pretty normal types. Like me, they have never had any desire to box. The session is simply an antidote to sitting in an office. “We all drag our feet when Tuesday nights come around,” says Sue, 43. “But we get such a buzz afterwards!” Well, maybe. I’m beginning to get a sweat up and to enjoy myself. Mr Millard looks as if he is having fun. He seems to be punching a man half his height, which explains a lot. After batting a yellow punchbag, we group into formal pairs. I am with Sue. She covers her hands with large, flat pads, and I must punch them. “You’ve got quite a good punch,” she says. I am duly flattered. It’s quite absorbing. Whereas with a traditional gym class the emphasis is on checking yourself out in the mirror, boxing requires focusing on someone else, and punching them. “Sparring partners!” Boylan yells. I’m up against Mr Millard, who keeps jabbing me in the ribs. I snap my neck back and get what I’m sure is whiplash, but manage to nail him a couple of times. “Jog round!” Boylan announces. The entire class takes off at speed. “Four!” he shouts. Everyone starts running everywhere. The idea is that whatever number Boylan shouts, you have immediately to get into a group comprising it. If you fail, press-ups and jumping jacks are your punishment. Muhammad Ali himself probably played this, but what I’m channelling is that this will be a great game for my Brownie pack. “Seven!” Sue gathers all the girls around her. “Fifteen!” Boylan yells. Chaos. I’m red-faced, panting and laughing. Forget about this being a bloke’s sport. It’s great for female bonding. I spend the next 15 minutes gossiping in the showers.

He thinks “I feel like hitting someone or something”

MR MILLARD

“The first thing in boxing is to work out if you have an orthodox or southpaw stance,” says Graham Boylan,

our boxing tutor. “Is that Southfork as in Dallas?” asks Rosie. Boylan, a distinguished former Irish amateur boxer, explains that southpaws fight with their right shoulder facing their opponent, allowing them to jab with their right glove, leaving their left glove free for big punches. “So what are you Rosie?” “Definitely orthodox,” she replies, taking up a southpaw stance. This is all the more embarrassing because this is not a private session: our A-Z guide to boxing (“Two steps forward, jab, two steps back. You’re ready to fight”) is holding up 30 other regulars. To fill in time, they are all ferociously skipping. Once we’ve clumsily wound crêpe-style bandaging around our hands and donned the training gloves, a curious sense of empowerment comes over me. I need to hit something or somebody. Sadly my wife is not yet playing; doesn’t she understand that’s the point of boxing? We are split up and I have to explain, rather meekly, to my first sparring partner that I am a beginner. It is at least 30 years since my last unsuccessful playground fight. Never mind, he is a lot shorter than me and I’ve also been given special hand pads, instead of gloves, to absorb the power of his punches. Boylan makes encouraging noises as I lumber into action, eventually realising that boxing is as much about timing and speed as strength. He’s less encouraging about my encounter with the punch bag, particularly when it springs back and lands in the middle of my face. And now for the big moment: tag-boxing with my beautiful wife. She tiptoes up, hands held up to protect her, and jabs vaguely in my direction. I try to counter this with a faux Muhammad Ali-type haymaker. Rosie’s style, sweetly ineffectual and peppered with handbag shots which peter out in mid-air, reminds me of the way my ten-year-old daughter tries to box when I take away her pocket money.

VERDICT

I’d love to do this again. What a great way to get fit.

Rosie and Philip went to the boxing conditioning class at Jubilee Hall at Covent Garden Plaza (more information from www.1life1body.com). Classes cost £10 per person. To find a class in your area, contact the Amateur Boxing Association (www.abae.co.uk)

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