Shitty Laps Of Steve Biko Way
One of my greatest regrets in life is discovering the Patisserie Valerie. I instantly dismissed it as one of those shitty old places where uppity London types with silly toy dogs go for afternoon tea and scones.
It turns out that they do a tremendous double chocolate gateau. I had one in King’s Cross. And then another in St Pancras. If your geography of London isn’t too hot, there’s a station here called King’s Cross St Pancras. I’m pretty certain the same lady works in both.
Anyway, fast forward to tonight. I’m feeling like an awful fat bastard by 10 pm and I haven’t run yet.
I got out the door and immediately the growls began in my belly. My first thought was “Maybe I could actually get a running sponsorship with Pampers or Immodium Instants at this rate?”.
I’m trying my best to run a 200-mile month to get back into the swing of things. That’s why it’s so important for me to record some proper miles every day.
After half a mile I turned back and started to run laps of Steve Biko Way. For a moment I thought “why the fuck have they named a street after that dickhead from Jerry Springer?”
Steve Biko was an anti-apartheid campaigner, not that meathead security wanker who allowed his guests to fight with chairs for shits and giggles.
Steve Biko Way runs as a crescent around 3 pubs, so if a tsunami started from my arse I had my choice between a Wetherspoon, a Yates wine bar and The Bell to choose to void myself in.
I ran 4 miles comfortably. Some old man tried to stop me outside The Bell with a puzzled look and a “What are you doing?”.
Sometimes I have to stop and ask myself that question too. Gonna email the Patisserie and see if they offer a self-exclusion policy for fat wankers with zero willpower.