I'm sweltering in the baking hot box room of an unassuming house in Cwmbran, from which, way off in the distance, I can see a tanker slowly cut across the glistening mill pond stillness of the Bristol Channel.
On the over-sized computer monitor behind me, however, two large men in lycra are hammering seven bells out of each other in some grainy '80s footage from US cable TV.
One, wearing pink trunks and boots, is dropped painfully to the floor by his heavyset opponent - a kaleidoscope of dayglo face paint and peroxide pigtails - who then falls on him from a great height, headbutting him hard right between the legs.
