A 12.4 Mile Long Run 8 Days Before Paris And Narrowly Escaping A Panic Attack In Tesco.
After feeling down on myself this week at my lack of activity, I went out today and stormed a 12.4 mile run.
I was up for it from the start. I took on the hills aggressively, chanting “hills, ya cunts!” at them as if they were old adversaries that just had to be destroyed.
I ran it at an average 9:33 min/mile pace which is someway off my goal half marathon pace of 9:09 for Edinburgh in a fortnight.
I’m fucking scared about it now more than Paris as I promised to streak my pubes pink if I failed to miss my target.
It just goes to show you that you shouldn’t make promises that you really don’t want to keep.
Narrowly averted a panic attack in Tesco.
Now I’m not one who regularly experiences panic attacks. My anger is usually for recreation and not something that defines my life.
However, when I go into Tesco, all bets are off.
The shop floor is crammed with state-sponsored survival machines who will spend forever yelling at their kids as they run into displays, shelves and other people.
It will be my job to avoid making eye contact with anyone in case I offend any of them.
I can’t compete with their desire for life as they push their way through to the Crisp & Dry and discount pet food aisle.
As someone who has been genetically teetering on the brink of relegation for quite a few generations, I can’t even hope for a home draw with these fuckers, so I step around them, nod at them out of politeness and keep myself to myself.
Pre-Tesco survival strategies.
Before I even enter the shop I have my route all planned out.
But it never goes to plan.
I have to reroute through the aisles to avoid others that I don’t want to talk to or to buy more shit that I will never even use.
Tesco brings the worst out of everyone. There is no need to pretend anymore that there’s another game in town other than basic survival.
I can taste blood in my mouth as I reach for the Cheestrings knowing that I’m just one accidental elbow-in-the-head away from entering some urban-beauty’s-hit-list.
At one point today I could feel my heart accelerating and missing beats. I got the “oh shit something is wrong and something bad is gonna happen but I don’t know what it fucking is!” feeling.
This thought just made it worse. It fed back into a negative feedback loop that gathered momentum and made me think “shit something is wrong this time!?’
I wanted to flee but I had Cheestrings and Whiskey which are two vital food sources for me.
I got to the till and it’s always the part I fear most, not just because it involves human interaction, but you see other people staring at what you have in your trolley and can see them casting aspersions on your lifestyle because of it.
“Cheestrings, Whiskey AND Crisp N Dry!?! He’s in for a decent wank tonight!”
I couldn’t look the cashier in the eye as I was frightened that she would cotton onto my inner-tension, which pervaded the air like the all-consuming panic and weirdness that follows a bad dream.
After the ‘Transaction Complete” message appeared on the card machine, the relief was palpable.
Paying with my credit card, my gut instinct was to scream “gyped you again you cunt!” at the cashier and throw my Cheestrings in her face whilst racing out of the building in blind defiance.
Instead I nodded to her politely, stuffed the Cheestrings in my pocket and happily munched on them on my way to the exit, knowing that I had once again escaped the urban fucking death trap that is Tesco, unscathed.