FOR reasons I absolutely won't be going into, I've been feeling a little bit out of sorts of late.

And no, you really don't want to know, although, well aware of the time-honoured journalistic faux pas of an article raising more questions than it answers, I'll tell you that physical jerks haven't been at the top of my priority list.

Given that this is a column about sporting activity, and I am indeed the man they call The L-plate Athlete, that places me in something of a difficult position.

Do I disappoint the people who await Monday morning with a manic look in their eye, a smile on their face, salivating at the prospect of me once again enduring muscular pain and discomfort for their entertainment? Or do I grit my teeth in the vain hope that the L-Plate will one day be replaced by a Superman S?

And so it was that I gingerly picked up a racket to play badminton against the man who my mobile phone contacts list as Big Dave.

Now at this point, you'd be forgiven for thinking that I'm making excuses before the first shuttle has even been cocked, and you'd be right.

Not only did I fear the bone shaking effects of last week's earthquake far more than any other individual on earth - no really - but Big Dave, as you might imagine, is bigger than I, who probably exists in other people's mobile phone contact lists as the Little L-Plate Athlete. Or maybe something not even that polite.

When it comes to badminton, Big Dave can pretty much stand still in the middle of the court, fly-swatting my feeble efforts back over the net, while I visit all four corners of the playing surface fearing extreme pain at any minute.

Oh, and I had the light in my eyes too.

Big Dave

But, throwing caution to the wind - and agreeing with Big Dave in advance that even a cataclysmic demolition of yours truly wouldn't really mean that he'd won - I pulled on shorts and trainers at a council run recreation centre in Salford. Game on.

I'm guessing that badminton is perhaps best regarded squash's soft brother.

But try playing it against a human windmill, and without troubling the Richter scale, and you can imagine my predicament.

Running was alright-ish, whereas stopping was an activity best treated with kid gloves.

In fact the only real incentive I had for not losing a point was that it meant that I didn't have to go through the potential discomfort of picking the shuttlecock back up off the floor.

I'd just about started to recall how much I used to enjoy badminton - perspiration without squash's almost certain potential for bruising - when Big Dave chalked up his first humiliation of the night.

Fifteen points to six, or thereabouts, and not nearly respectable.

Pace

Game two proceeded at a similar pace, although I'm suspecting that Big Dave was being far more charitable than he needed to be.

Wasn't that shuttlecock out? Are you sure that I still get a point if I hit it into the next court? Is there really a hole in your racket?

By game three, we were both a bit out of breath, so the drubbing was more sedate. But it came, nevertheless.

Maybe it was character-building? Maybe I'd thrash him if we both made it to the 2008 finals of the Walking Under A Small Doorway Competition?

But then you wouldn't feel too bad about losing against Big Dave if you were small… and had a fear of physical jerks which I absolutely won't be telling you any more about.

Big Dave fancies doing something different next time, by which point I should be feeling much better.

Will we be playing basketball? Not a chance.

Simon is in training for the Bupa Great Manchester Run - one of the numerous world championship events which form part of Manchester World Sport 08.