Posted by: Vicky V | April 27, 2009

Lily-livered ligger

Yesterday started with sunshine and coffee and ended with me yelling,“So you can shove your cheroot up your jacksy and go home to your plums.”

At my boyfriend Marcus. In front of a small crowd of spectators in the docklands area of London.

I’d been twitchy all weekend. All this abstaining from gaming and combat was making me hungry for a competition fix. Watching Mum spar with the Munroes over the size of their respective barn conversions wasn’t going to cut it. I needed to get close enough to competition to feel, smell, maybe even lick it without flouting the rules.

So, inspired by my pavement running, I dragged Marcus out to Sunday’s London Marathon. He was crotchety at the outset. His Loveless Lime still life wasn’t going to plan and I sensed he would much rather have stayed in bed playing with his paintbrush. But I was adamant that we spend some quality time together. My new regime may be getting in the way of my job and social life but I was not going to let it get in the way of my relationship.

It was a gloriously sunny day and the race was a marvel to behold. People of all ages sweating and striving, some of them really making that 26.2 mile challenge as hard for themselves as possible by dressing in rhino gear. Even Jordan & Peter, celebville’s most competitively orange couple, were braving the course. I was entranced by all these runners gleefully over taking each other, painfully, joyfully in pursuit of the very best they can be. Oh how marvellous the pursuit of a goal! In my reverie I felt my coat yanked from my back as Marcus pulled me back. I had been bending dangerously over the crowd into the course.

“This is dull” he said. “Let’s wait for Jordan’s tits to pass and go for a pint. I wonder how many times she’s knocked herself out?”

I was flabbergasted.

“How can you say this is dull? This is one of world’s greatest sporting challenges. Whatshisname died running from Marathon to Athens yet look at these courageous individuals. Every time these people over take they are better than someone else. They are a little stronger than someone else in this desperate universe and they (dramatic pause), they will be the ones who save those weaker than them when it comes to a swine flu epidemic, for example.”

Marcus lit up a cheroot (a small cigar commonly reserved for professors and Dads on Christmas Day) and looked at me through half closed eyes.

“Who died and made you Princess Leia? I find this whole event utterly ridiculous. These people are part of the machine. They are just falling into line, using each other as mile posts because their vision isn’t bombastic enough to stand by itself. These are people who probably work in offices, the 9 to 5 drones. They stifle the subjective and stem the flow of creativity. The true blood that keeps this society alive rushes and dances in every direction. It knows nothing of a linear course.”

I was boiling with rage and if I’d had Princess Leia’s cinnamon buns strapped to my head I’d have thrown them in his silly face.

Pull the trigger and unleash a torrent of buns

Pull the trigger and unleash a torrent of buns

Instead I snapped back,

“These people are strong enough to seek out the reality of how good and strong they are. These people are brave enough to seek each other out. They dare to compete which is something you’d know nothing about, shut up in your dusty studio, getting high on linseed oil. Furthermore, these nine to fivers, as you call them, subsidise your indulgent, non-earning ass. You. (dramatic pause) My friend. (dramatic pause) Are what’s known as a lily-livered ligger who is too scared to exist in the real world.”

Then I threw down the cheroot stinger and turned on my green flash. I ran a straight course all the way home not noticing who I overtook so blinded was I by the mean reds.

The only thing that calmed me down that evening (after the buzz of seven gins had worn off) was an entire website dedicated to the idiocy of someone else’s boyfriend. It seems they are breeding faster than swine flu. How apt.



  1. Q disappeared for the entire marathon. People run that for charidee, I exclaim to an empty room. OK, so there’s a donkey running – sorta – to a heart attack, people dressed strangely for a children’s cause, others wearing really, really stupid hats – BUT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY DON’T BLOKES GET IT?

    Stick ’em in a fast car and they’re happy.

    Stick ’em on a footie field and I’m even happier.

    Still, like the boat race thing, I enjoy watching marathons, just like funerals and weddings.

    I cry at all of them.

  2. […] a blissful union of stretch and meditation, shaking off all thoughts of problematic Cream Horns and behaviourally unsound boyfriends. At the end of the class Suze declared I was a yoga genius, that I looked pro and bendy while she […]

  3. […] And here was I thinking he’d been sulking about my passionate outburst at the London Marathon. […]

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