“I look forward to reading your full marathon race report.” so stated the spam comment caught up in the excellent WordPress spam filter.
How wrong can a spammer get, just how far wide of the mark is it to make a random post that you hope will slip under the radar and sit on someone else’s blog like a big fat cuckoo chick waiting to attract readers to its host site, in this case some dodgy jewellery seller, yeah, like you’d buy a £1000 diamond ring from a blog comment on the internet.
In this case, very wrong, wrong on so many levels, the fact that I was stuffing myself with half of a family sized bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut chocolate at the time only adds to the irony of trying to pretend that I would actually write anything of interest to marathon racers, me, who last ran anywhere when, well, actually I’ve probably never run anywhere, ever, even at Leeds Modern Grammar School when they made us run the cross country at gunpoint we dived off the path and hid in the woods until it was over.
I don’t understand the concept of running places for thats what God invented cars for, I have absolutely no need to run 26 miles and 386 yards when I have a car that can drive those miles perfectly well on less than one gallon of petrol and leave me completely unexhausted and without legs of jelly and a complexion like a dead person of several days death.
I doubt that I could run the 386 yards of the marathon race, in fact I’d be pushed to run the 6 yards without stopping halfway – its all a bit 1980s is running marathons isn’t it, you can still see the 1980s in marathon runners as they all still wear those very short shorts in satin materials that are slashed up to the hip bone, as if we want to see their thigh and hip bones, mmmm, nothing more sexy than a middle aged thin as a rake man with a beard, hairy back and a long stream of snot trailing from his nose, shorts cut tightly around the crotch and slashed up the the hip bone, oh please no, you’re turning us all on too much, keep running or we’ll faint.
There is something so gloriously pointless about a marathon that its almost heroic, “Why are you running in your underwear for 26 miles 386 yards” you’ll ask and they’ll give you the stock answer of the story of Pheidippedes the Greek messenger and his 26 mile 386 yard run from the battlefield near Marathon to Athens to announce a great victory, which frankly my dear is complete bollax because his running feat was over 150 miles before dropping dead, as you would, thats the sort of distance that should only be attempted by car even if he had to wait 2500 years for one to be invented.
Personally were I to organise something like, for instance, the London Marathon, I’d be waiting at the finish line to slap the head of every finisher and tell them not to be so stupid as to enter next year, then next year when they appeared again I’d move the finish line back by another mile and watch their faces as they turned at the end of the Mall to not see the finish line at all, serves the buggers right, littering up the road with discarded water bottles and too-heavy-to-carry-for 26 miles 386 yards giant chicken heads or sit-upon ostriches.
No, take it from us, street joggers, we don’t want to see you, you are an eyesore and are using up far too much oxygen in your pursuit of, well, frankly we don’t know what you’re pursuing, we suspect its something very selfish like free water bottles or the opportunity to run behind Nell McAndrew, I admit that I’d run across the street to run behind her mind, but thats about it, is that more than 6 yards, well its a start anyway.
Our Ned has a friend, Tank we’ll call him, for that is his real name, who looks like death warmed up even at rest, even stood still relaxing you have to keep feeling his pulse or hold a mirror in front of his mouth, he doesn’t look long in this world at the best of times but when he puts those ridiculous glossy shorts cut up to his hip bone and starts to run the streets around here you see the traffic stop, people get out of their cars and urge him to get in the passenger seat and they’ll take him home poor lad he doesn’t look well does he, seriously, it can’t be doing him any good at all and I’ve taken out an injunction to stop him running up our street because it distresses me so much.