COMPO

Channelling Compo off of West Yorkshire’s answer to Top Gear ‘Last of the Summer Wine’ after this morning’s run. Nothing slapstick about another 4 miles under my neatly tied elasticated belt. Nothing quite prepares you for ringing out the sweat from your underwear!  It’s something runners don’t tell people who don’t run. Just another reason to think it’s mental I suppose. That and apparently now I need to wear nipple tape and lubricate in between my legs. Could be worse, I could be an inside runner. I pass a few of these from time to time. An inside runner (for the uneducated) is those pant wetting, lubricated nipple tapers who choose to exert themselves indoors, usually in front of a window. I love passing them in a morning. It feels a bit like they’re at school and you’re in the playground. Don't tell them you can run outside for free. Although having said this there is one brilliant lady who holds on to a running machine. If only there was something for me to hold onto in the street. A bed on wheels perhaps. Turns out there is a Christmas market outside Tate Modern now if you fancy getting smashed on mulled wine and having a butcher's at a Lichtenstein. Jingle!