Self-abuse and sweaty thighs.

Now try that I will, but I fail to comprehend this frightfully odd business of folk feeling compelled to run themselves into an early grave – there’s even an official glossy magazine on how to do it!

This morning I came down to a kitchen full to the brim with stretched lycra pants and running paraphernalia and believe me, some of these  ‘lycra pants’ were looking a damn sight more distressed than the bulging buttocks and brass plated Bristols wearing them.

It was Marathon Day!

My home had been taken over by a gaggle of female running enthusiasts and as for the paraphenalia….well, there was this aerodynamic (not my words) water bottle that looked to me like something that had just leapt out of an Ann Summers emporium, head bands, gym shoes capable of flying the wearer to the moon and God knows what else.

There was also a whiff of addiction and self-harming in the air, as scrambled eggs and blackened toast provided succour to the hope of ‘Well done’s’ and ‘Haven’t you done wells!’ It really was a spectacle as sweat glands prepared, adrenalin spewed and deliverance waited just around a corner of deluded agony and exhausted euphoria.

It was Marathon day!

Well no thanks.

Not for me, addictions to booze, fags, caffeine, sex etc etc are far more fun and I don’t have to run for bloody miles to satisfy them.

Better to die happy than fit I say!



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