September is upon us and the weather has taken a turn for the autumnal. It can only mean the new Premiership season is days away. For those of the squad not on the rehab trail, it signals the end of another pre-season.

There is a darker part of me deep down that quite enjoys the cruel and unusual methods the strength and conditioning staff come up with in order to improve our conditioning. I'm happy, of course, that trends have shifted away from the cross-country and long interval running (not much fun for the larger gentleman) to more game- specific power and endurance training.

Some retired pros may cluck their tongues at this news and say 'What's to be done with this younger generation?'.

You'll be reassured to know we still get plenty of quality time with Mr Pain Threshold and his friends lactic acid, deep burn and the upchuck reflex. It gets to the stage where if I can't taste the sweet tang of lactic and blood in my mouth after a session I feel short- changed.

There is of course good reason for this mild sadism. In order to play the high-tempo, ball-in-hand style people have associated with us in recent years, we all need to push the fitness levels up a notch or two.

With defences ever refining and law interpretations staying the same as the final half of last season, I suspect there will be more teams opening up and coming to the party.

Of course, to go with our beefed-up conditioning is the need to improve all aspects of our ball skills. This has meant the guys have had plenty of ball in hand from the off.

Watching the guys go through the gears from the sidelines with the fat wheezy boys in between sets of Coach Higgins' Eastern European circuit of high performance, I'm reminded of Father Ted's entry for Eurovision,

My Lovely Horse

, as the guys race round the field with their proverbial fetlocks blowing in the wind.

We all hope that the hard work of the summer pays off and we don't fall at the first fence in what will be a testing fixture at Leeds. I certainly hope that we manage to avoid any serious visits to the horse dentist.

I must leave you now as I still haven't posted Keanu Reeves' birthday card and David Flatman has come round to stash his car roofbox in my garage.

He's far too style-conscious to trade in for a Volvo just yet despite me extolling the virtues of their capacious boots.