How I Won The London Marathon 2016
I ran my 25th half marathon in February today and it was easy for once. I was in the right mindset from the beginning thanks to a wonderful dream.
Last night I won the London Marathon 2016.
All of the rest of the runners had got the date of the event wrong which meant I was the only one there at the start.
Being my worst enemy, I knew I was gonna fuck this up somehow but I had to remain positive. I only had to make it 26.2 miles and I’d be the fucking champion.
I can’t really remember that much about the first 20 miles other than I stopped to drink at about 18 All Bar One’s along the route to ponder what it would mean to be a marathon champion.
My biggest fear was becoming so drunk that I fell over and broke my legs like a race horse. That’s the only way I could lose.
I came out of each of the bars drunk, still carrying my pint glass and giving the victory sign to the TV helicopters.
I remember being interviewed by Sebastian Coe multiple times over the course of those opening miles. He kept asking me “How can you possibly lose this now?” and I just told him to fuck off and mind his own business.
It was joyful as I really dislike Sebastian Coe.
In the last 10k everything got psychedelic and I became a dog. I crawled my way along the Embankment, panting at all the well-wishers who were out in force to see this most memorable of victories.
I even stopped and rolled around to play to the audience like a canine Alex Higgins.
At some point my tongue became stuck to the tarmac because I’d forgotten to drink anything throughout the entire race, but luckily some old lady had Sprite in a dog bowl for me.
I licked her face.
She was a nice lady.
I sprinted towards the end and was perplexed about the finishing line. Sebastian Coe who now had taken on the appearance of Satan himself told me that I had to jump over the finishing tape in order to win the race. If I broke the tape like a normal human, then I’d be sent to Battersea Dog’s Home and clamped.
I think I told him to fuck off again and burst my way across the line.
I’d fucking won.
The Queen came out to meet me, patted me on the head and hand-fed me some rainbow Toffos. I ate them up and congratulated myself for my efforts. It may well have taken me 13 hours to complete the race, but I was now the man to beat in 2017.
Then I woke up and had a fucking Pot Noodle.