I hate running, but I do it most days, like a big, sweaty, vest-wearing penis.
It’s part of my training regime, trying to stave off my body’s seemingly endless desire to become a fat pink circle with a face glued on the front.
So I run.
I rumble through the darkness like a massive, irritable, flourescent bear who not only has a sore head, but recently had his cock burned with a cigar and then washed in malt vinegar by a pensioner wearing chain-mail gloves.
I’m not the happiest flourescent bear, but I do occasionally sh!t in the woods.
Despite my hatred for running, I feel a sense of well-being, achievement and invigoration afterwards, much the same as I do after a really good set on the weights or a really good sparring session. This is great for me, because I used to get that from competitive sports that I can no longer play due to injury.
So at least I am a satisfied and invigorated flourescent bear.
But something happened to me the other evening, on my run, that allowed me to reach an entirely new level of satisfaction. And it involved a businessman.
There I was, running along with my iPod in and a bobble hat on, making slow but steady progress along a very long, straight, empty path.
A long, straight, empty path.
When to my left, I became vaguely aware of a taxi pulling up alongside the road. It overtook me and dropped a man off about 50 yards ahead of me.
A man of business. A businessman.
I knew this because he has a dark suit, a briefcase and a black umbrella. I half expected him to have a bowler hat too, but he didn’t. He also had a face that was actually made of the kind of arrogance that could sink a hovercraft.
As soon as he got out of the cab he looked back down the road at me: The massive, luminous, sweating man, covered in tattoos and wearing a vest.
He stared at me, as I continued jogging towards a point approximately 30 yards to the north. A fixed point, unerring, where my long, straight empty path crossed the road he was now being dropped off into.
I saw him instantly break into a kind of bizarre speedwalk that made him look like an odd, spindly puppet being furiously finger-f*cked by a drunken pervert.
To my amazement, he was heading straight for Point X like some kind of irrelevant fat baby in a grown-up’s suit, he was racing me to that point of ultimate conversion where the paths of our destiny crossed.
He was racing me.
Or more to the point, he was trying to time it so that we came together in one of those little pavement anecdotes of utter f*ckpest that come to be when two people suddenly and accidentally try to inhabit the same exact space.
Even more bizarre was the aggressive, cockerelesque strutdance he did to propel himself into position, presumably in order to win this tiny irrelevant battle by seeing me stop, slow down or veer around him like some kind of submissive, high-visibility f*ckmoon orbiting an arrogant tw@tplanet.
This was his moment and he was throwing down the gauntlet hard. His glowering bastard of a face locking onto me like a big desperate mental.
I didn’t even look up.
I ran on, entirely ignorant of his existence and ran directly through him.
His businessy face bounced firmly off of my chest as I proceeded through him like a freight train smashing through a particularly limp scarecrow. I could almost sense the regret as those last few seconds panned out and he realised he was deliberately in front of 18 and-a-half stones of heavily tattooed bastard.
The umbrella went first, thrown forwards in some kind of unusual panic-based reaction. The briefcase simply released in shock as he landed on his suity anus on the grass at the side of the path, like a small, irrelevant, suited dogsh!t.
I ran on, entirely unaffected.
I didn’t look back, I have no idea what, if anything, he said, as I was listening to Rage Against the Machine really loudly under my bobble hat.
But as I ran on through the pain and on into the cold winter night… I smiled.
Get out of my way next time you arrogant, suit-wearing officec*nt.