“Jesus fucking Christ!” I exclaimed, being almost as surprised by the sound of my new cockney accent as I was about the change in my appearance.

I stared at myself in the toilet mirror in disbelief. My expensive suit had been replaced with trainers, track bottoms and a fitness vest, which revealed a muscular body, covered in tattoos. I had a new tough guy face and a haircut that looked as though I’d done it myself. In a state of desperation, I walked back into the bar and approached my colleagues, begging for them to help me. But they didn’t recognise me, and treated me like scum, telling me to leave them alone. Then they quickly left the pub.

“Fucking posh wankers,” I found myself saying.

“Don’t worry mate,” said the barman, “you’re drinking with us tonight. Here, have a pint on the house.”

“Cheers mate,” I said, gulping down the lager.

And as I began to drink, I found myself watching the football, and before I knew it, I was cheering with the crowd as England scored a goal. It was the best feeling ever.

By the end of the night, my previous life as a ‘posh wanker’ had faded away like a distant memory, and I was now just another one of the lads.

It’s a year later, and I’m working as a bouncer and fitness coach. I have a beautiful girlfriend, and a baby on the way. We don’t have a lot of money, but quite honestly, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.