Running Through London At Rush Hour Is Hell On Earth
I did a silly thing tonight.
I ran through Central London during rush hour. Weaving around all sorts of pedestrians with all of the grace of Ian Curtis on a treadmill made of lava.
I hated everyone, most of all myself. I despised every single fucking tourist taking photos of the same landmark that every other tourist takes photographs of. Any cyclists on the pavement deserved to be shot in my eyes. I was insane for 90 minutes. I thought I was over this shit. Worst of all was the likely lads spilling out of the pubs onto the pavement in Fitzrovia.
I got abuse off some of them in Charlotte Street. I really struggled not to respond this time and I didn’t because they are weak men needing someone to hold their dick wherever they go. Afraid to be alone and perpetually striving for the approval of the alpha male by shouting at the sour-looking laddie with the Halloween Head. Gobble the dick and spread the essence around your face. It’s what you really want Mr Bantosaurus Rex.
I don’t know why anyone would do that run commute. I’d rather suck Meatloaf’s cock after a 5 set game of tennis than ever do that run again. I prefer abandoned London. Tottenham at 3am in an underpass. Focus on making the feet move and not on swallowing the hate, living in fear of becoming a YouTube sensation through some misjudged rant at some poor bastard.
Central London outside of the parks is not meant for runners at rush hour, it is for the mad drunks staggering from side to side on the pavement, the eternal phone gazers, the mother’s in pairs wheeling angrily down the street with a cigarette burning into the pram. It is for the eternally bewildered tourists wondering which direction to be disappointed in next, accidentally gazing awkwardly into the furious eyes of a silly bespectacled madman who should know better.
I got to Hammersmith and stopped before my heart went up. I had a cheese and jalapeno pretzel from Auntie Anne’s and said please and thank you to the woman behind the counter showing that I’m not always an absolute plonker. Mostly though. Mostly.