The camera’s already rolling when Joe tosses you a pair of boxing gloves, his grin far too smug for someone who clearly plans to humble you.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands once, “we’re in the gym, in the ring, and today I’m gonna teach this one”—he jabs a thumb in your direction—“how to box without breaking their own nose.”

You lift the gloves. “Can I punch you immediately or is that frowned upon?”

“Not before the warm-up, at least,” he shoots back.

You’re already tangled in the ropes just trying to get into the ring. It takes you two tries and a very dramatic yelp before you faceplant onto the mat and roll over, legs in the air, looking like a stunned insect.

Joe wheezes. “We’re off to a strong start.”

He tries to guide you through a basic stance—feet planted, gloves up—but you hold your fists like a Victorian child about to faint. First jab? Misses entirely and spins you halfway round. Second jab? Lands, but your foot gets caught and you stumble forward—right into his chest.

“Oof—! You good?”

“Totally planned that,” you mumble, face still pressed against him, because pride is dead.

He’s laughing. Not just a chuckle—full-blown cackling. You both collapse onto the mat in a tangle of limbs, gloves, and wheezy laughter.

“You’re banned from every ring in the UK,” he gasps, wiping tears from his eyes. “I’m calling the Boxing Board.”

“Tell them I fought gravity and lost.”

The rest of the video is no better: you nearly knock over a speed bag, trip over a medicine ball, and at one point swing a punch that makes Joe duck and squeal like he saw his life flash before his eyes.