The London Marathon is on Sunday. This is normally something I find reason to get excited at, but for all intents and miserable purposes, I’m not too enthused this year. It might be because this is the third time in three years that my application has been rejected from the very outset, without any sense of indecision. I have been suspecting racial bias for some time now and am contemplating writing my expose in the coming weeks and blowing this thing out of the water. It might be that I am still slightly injured with this bothersome Ilio Tibial Band Syndrome (ITBS), which seems to be determined in tearing out any satisfaction that I might yet have gleaned in life and cheerily pissing all over it, in front of my stupid sobbing face, arse cheeks flapping in the wind. Well no, it’s probably not either of those things. What it will be though, reader, is the fact that I can expect, without any shadow of doubt the casual entry to the race of any number of inconsequential celebrity oxygen thiefs; so deprived of merit or worth, I cannot bring myself to even think of their names. Like Gordon Ramsey. You know Gordon Ramsey? Well that is the degree of unrelenting cuntage we are dealing with. I can’t stand that man and his plasticine face and the simple thought of him and his merry brigade of nobodies taking part in the marathon year upon year, troubles me more than words can say. In my mind, I am hoping that someone has the sense to tie all their shoelaces togther at the start of the race, so when the pistol fires to set the runners off, they all fall flat on their faces in earned stupid unison. Whether anyone will do that, I just don’t know, but I can hope.
In more positive news, since my recent interview has now been left in the hands of the Gods and Luther Van Dross, I can begin running again. I have put it off for long enough. These are mutually exclusive events I should add; the lack of running was due to the aforementioned ITBS and not because I am the kind of pillock who needs to take a breather from something they are apparently passionate about everytime they wake up with a bad hair day (I should add, for all of you who believe in bad hair days; they are not bad hair days – you just have shit hair. Ditto passports. Stop saying “My passport photo makes me look terrible, you mustn’t see it.” I have news. THAT PICTURE IS AN UNEQUIVOCAL MATCH FOR YOUR STUPID FACE. It is irrefutably you. Your picture is not ugly, my friend, you were just not made for the close up.)
In any case, next week I shall gingerly begin running again, in apprehension of that dull ache in the right side of my leg and of course I shall be letting you all know how things are getting on. I know my fitness must be shot to pieces, having now not run for the best part of two months. I feel more unfit than a 90 year old asthmatic grandmother going down on her grandude with wheezy vigour, choking on her ill fitting dentures. Pass the inhaler.