By Tom Fordyce

The noise of boxing glove hammering into heavy punchbag echoes round the gym.

TAKALOO TERROR Fights: 25 Wins: 22 Knock-outs: 16 Titles: WBU light-middleweight champion

Watch the fight

WHAM! BAM! WHAM-WHAM-WHAM! BAM!

It is a sound to strike fear into the bravest of men. It is a sound to turn legs to jelly and noses to pulp. It is the sound of WBU light-middleweight champion Takaloo warming up - and I am next in the ring.

In the name of sporting knowledge, I have agreed to fight a man so hard that he could probably punch his way out of a nuclear bunker, bare-knuckled.

This is how the BBC Sport website described the fate of one of Tak's recent opponents: "Gomez, having won five straight fights, was no match for Takaloo and was sent to the canvas by a massive left to the jaw."

If that happened to a man who had won five straight fights, what will happen to me? My last bout was 14 years ago, and although I ended as the undisputed victor, my little sister put up a hell of a struggle.

And, unlike Tak, she didn't have arms made from bulging steel or a six-pack like a turtle's shell, and hadn't won 16 professional fights by knock-out alone.

Foolish idea

The notion is simple: in order to demonstrate how skilled boxers are, and how fit, I will spend one three-minute round trying to hit Tak, the Iranian-born fighter who now hails from Kent.

He will not be allowed to hit me back. At least, that's the theory. Trainer Jim McDonnell isn't so sure.

"He's a lovely bloke out of the ring, but a spiteful so-and-so in it," Jim whispers to me. "He'll definitely give you the odd shot."

He winks. Takaloo, meanwhile, is shadow-boxing, a maelstrom of punches, power and speed. Primed to face Eugenio Monteiro at Wembley on Saturday, he is so fast and so mobile that he could batter 10 men, let alone one.

Close up, the awful truth dawns: one punch could kill me. Forget a broken nose or black eye - his fist would go straight through my face.

The all-important safety document

Pausing only to get him to sign the agreement on the right, I climb into the ring, flexing my legs so that he cannot see how much they are shaking.

For some reason Tak is wearing a headguard. I am not. This strikes me as a touch ironic, not to mention unfair.

With a shout from Jim, we are under way.

At first I am hesitant. Trying to hit Tak seems like a very bad idea, a little like going into a lion enclosure wearing a steak suit.

I wade in. I put together a strong combination of jabs and old-school swipes, only for my fists to meet nothing but thin air.

Takaloo laughs and kindly puts his gloves by his waist. I throw another flurry of punches, accidentally switching to southpaw and back three times in the process.

Not a single blow makes contact. I might as well be trying to hit a floating speck of dust. I would compare it to the scenes in the Matrix where Keanu casually leans out of the way of the bullets, except to compare my punches to bullets would leave me open to litigation.

Suddenly, I get lucky. A swinging right catches him in the ribs and a lucky left brushes his nose.

A thought flashes through my head - what happens if I put him on the canvas? Would that make me the WBU champion?

It is a thought that stays in my mind for approximately a third of a second, the amount of time it takes Tak to land a punch just above my eyes.

In professional terms it is no more than tickle. In Tom terms it is a hammer blow.

Instantaneously, all remaining stomach for the fight is gone. The temptation to vault the ropes and sprint for safety is overwhelming.

The idea of simply lying down on the floor is even more attractive. I am puffing like steam train climbing a hill. Chasing a man round a ring while waving your arms about is an exhausting business. My only consolation is that I am the one doing the chasing and not vice-versa.

When the bell finally goes I can barely speak. When I do it is with the happy realisation that my teeth are in the same order as they were three long minutes ago.

Tak comes over to touch gloves and apologises for his punch.

I decide to let him off the hook.