I watched the London Marathon earlier today. I must say it was tiring. Made more so by the fact that the television was on stand-by and I lost the remote last Tuesday.
I could have been competing in the marathon myself this year. If I hadn't forgotten to send the entry form in. Well, I say forgetting to send it in, but to put it more plainly, forgotten to apply for an entry form, forgotten to enter the ballot for entry, forgotten to go training, forgotten to buy some new trainers, and probably something else that I had forgotten.
But the point is, I could have been running this morning. I could have been wearing some silly costume and appearing on the BBC, being chased by Sonali Shah (I would have let her catch me). I could have been a charity worker for the day, my path to heaven secured.
However I am unfit, there is no denying it. If I had attempted to do the marathon, I would have been more endangered than those giant rhinos that would have been about ten miles ahead of me. I mean, running to the bathroom (you don't need to know) gives me cramp. So twenty miles round the big city would easily put pay to me, not least some of them being south of the river, and I ain't going there.
So sadly you have been deprived seeing my death live on television, while a man dressed as a giant duck tries mouth to mouth on me while a Dalek uses a mobile phone to call the emergency services. Laying at the foot of the Cutty Sark as the band at the pub plays When The Saints Go Marching In for the four hundredth time is one way I was not planning on going.
I will settle on the other plan laying at the foot of my bed with those three young ladies in skimpy underwear looking on. I shall leave the running to someone else. Although I think I shall miss the chance of urinating in front of a television camera, how many people could say they had done that?
Perhaps next year I shall apply to the medical team, speciality nipple rash treatment. Ladies only please.
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