by mysterious debilitating diseases.What had happened? Perhaps it had taken my internal organs 10 weeks to emerge from the swamp of festering wood alcohols and pork fat which for so long had choked my body cavities.Or perhaps it was all in my head; perhaps
and disastrous. I started off imitating my favourite Ethiopian running heroes. Now, suddenly, Ive switched to imitating Fats Domino. Then, to relieve my pain and depression, my OMO pictures me at the finish line: there I am, breasting the tape just millimetres
-increasing knackeredness. Soon, merely putting on my shoes was enough to exhaust me. I weighed myself. I was the heaviest I’d ever been. I embarked upon a virtually fat-free diet: tuna and baked potatoes, obscure leaves and roots, soya, pale, thin milk like blood
contained within the folds of a punctured football. And perched triumphantly upon its back was a fat, brown and cream striped spider. I stopped my watch at 2:07 seconds, and bent the better to observe the unfolding of this minuscule drama. Was I witnessing a
. Then suddenly, it was open season for bus conductors and solicitors and the unwaged from Middlesbrough. To my mind, there’s simply nothing to compare with the heroism of a hard-smoking lard-arse after five pints of stout. Twenty thousand fat blokes who hadn
As the Trans 333 looms ever closer, a frisson of pure terror is rippling through our little band of British ‘disties’ – we who are either too old, too fat, too lame or generally too congenitally useless to run anything under 100 miles in a time
would have to endure for the next six days.Thankfully, one of these turned out to be Luke Cunliffe, with whom I had charged around Dartmoor two years earlier in celebration of RW Online Editor Sean Fishpool’s 30th birthday. Unaccountably, he was fat. I
