Fuck
this fucking sport! I'm never gonna break the world record, or the
national record.....fuck, even my club record is pretty tough! So why
do I put all my eggs into the most unforgiving, deep like
Maryfuckinpoppins' handbag, tragic, fuckin' basket that is track and
field?!?! Why? Because I like to go fast, and be faster than most
people I know! Last night I had one of my fuck track and field
moments, I went out and got wasted....but I also got to go fast!
It's
a Thursday night, I'm tired, the remains of a chicken salad litter
the plate beside me on the sofa. It looks like Shrek took a dump on
the plate. This eating healthy shit really bugs me, give me a pizza,
chicken wings, a can of Pepsi and I'm happy as a marathon running
prick on concrete! I'll address the bullshit that is the athlete's
diet another day...........Anyway, I'm laying there after a gnarly
weights session, (107kg Hang Clean personal record! To be fair it's
not much compared to the ogres that actually compete in
weightlifting, but I happen to be quite a dashing young sprinter, so
forget them!) and my phone starts to buzz. It's Cobra Commander, my
boyhood friend who's now in the army. I call him Cobra Commander as
the dude is waiting for the first ball of WW3 to be pitched, and when
it does, he is gonna be a walking warcrime! “Yo man, me and the
Sandman are coming over for a few beers! Is that cool?”....”No
way bro I've track in the morni....” Too late! The gung ho fuck has
already hung up. I just wanted to sleep, but now these two
campaigners for all that is morally wrong are on the way over. This
can only go one way.
The
Sandman, what a fucking guy. He's my best friend and the worlds
greatest pervert. He gained his nickname after he snorted a line of
sand when we were 15, why? Nobody knows, he just went and did it. My
theory is the Racheal Whelan Theory of Untouchable Combustability.
When Sandman was 14 he acquired his first girlfriend, Racheal Whelan,
and my lord did she have the biggest pair of King Kong Bundys you
have ever seen! But....The Sandman never got to have a feel of those
generous milk maids! Ms Whelan was the tightest, most legit thing
since the motherfuckin' Iceberg that cut the Titanic in half! Racheal
soon dumped Sandman after his seventy fourth million attempt to
squeeze her tits. I think that the fact that he never got a chance to
reach the promised land really hit home with Sandman, at first he was
a mess, kinda like that prick who's obsessed with paper in Kevin
Costner's Waterworld, except in his case it was with Racheal. After
about a year and a half he got over Donkey Kong chest and well,
became a dog, slipping his rascal into pretty much any bitch stupid
enough to pay him attention! Last night would be no different,
Sandman would launch his Blitzkreig of sexual depravity on anything
in high heels. As usual he would be met with some resistance, but
this time it would be armed resistance and I turned out to be the
Chewbacca to his Han Solo i.e. bailing the retard out before he got
the Edward Norton treatment, and I'm talking American History X
not the fuckin Everyone Says I Love you variety!
11.00pm.....on
my seventh Corona, my athletic, light weight ass is struggling! Kenan
and Kel have necked about 10 beers each and there's no sign of them
letting up. “Fuck them...at least I can run faster” I think to
myself. A pathetic thought in hindsight, like they give a fuck!!?
“Lets roll out!” Cobra Commander is on the warpath, tonight he is
looking for some blue on blue action.
11.38pm....We
just got in, sometimes its good to live in Suburbia. Local night
clubs where the security know your nice, untroublesome face sure is a
plus! Not that anywhere else would lets us three shitheads in! We're
at the bar, it was a hard ask walking from the Door. My legs are
gone, November; 250/300/350/400 x 2, that's the last time I've been
this limp legged, I puked then....probably will again tonight! And
off he goes, Cobra has made eye contact with some skud missile across
the dancefloor. I'll give it to him, for all the alphabetti spaghetti
that comes out of his mouth, he can still charm the slut out of most
girls! It's just me and The Sandman now, us against the music.
History beckons the Macho man. We'll take on anything, that guy in
his tight t-shirt over there, them two warlocks in denial about their
fat locks, the bar staff, the security team, Racheal Whelan over
there, that guy with the.....RACHEAL WHELAN. Shit just got nuclear!
“Racheal!
Hey Rach!”.....Shit, Sandman has tracked her! This is gonna be
interesting. I don't bother follow him over, he needs to confront his
own demons. He's like that German dick, in The Raiders of The Lost
Ark, he just had to look in the fucking box. Well call me Indy cause
I ain't getting my face melted tonight! It seems to be going well, I
reckon he hasn't seen her in the four years since we left school. I
must say she's grown into her tits, she's a little on the sumo side
of the things to be perfectly honest. Speaking of fat beasts, who's
this motherfucker? Let me set the scene, skinny old Sandman is having
an honest chat with she who must not be fingered. All of a sudden a
mass of fat, skin and hair enters the equation. You know they type,
he's wearing a size small Abercrombie tee, even though the only thing
he'd fit into is a boiler suit, and not one from the Intergalactic
video, the type you wrap around the boiler at home, you know what I'm
getting at! Anyway, this Andre The Giant lookin' retard thinks he's
fuckin' Zyzz just cause his big fat arms dwarf everyone else's.
Anyway it seemed like Fatrick Swayze didn't like the Sandman, and
when I say seemed, Sandman falling to the floor pretty much sealed
the deal. It was at that moment I did what I do best. I ran!
Sandman
has helped me out in the past. He's giving me heads up before I
stepped in dog shit, he's secured some pretty fine girls to arrive
at parties I've thrown. Well now it was my turn to have his back! Now
you're thinking, but you ran away you spineless twit! You're right I
ran....but not away! Reminiscent of Ben Johnson Seoul 1988, I took
off like a fuckin' A -Bomb. I'm pretty sure I split a twenty meter PB
as I came upon the fat bastard, about three meters out I leaped into
the air like Sotomayor and landed a right fist into the face of Jabba
the Cunt, one that would have given Don King a never ending boner!
Down he went, followed by the ever reliable Cobra Commander, eager
for some warfare! Sandman was now on his feet as we watched CC try
make this species of whale extinct. However our hunt was soon ended
by the knights in dull black armour.
Outside
the three of us stood, barred for life, triumphant in our friendship,
not so triumphant in our quest for peace and pussy! While the two
guys gave each other a play by play of our destruction of the Death
Star, all I could think of was my first track meet in one week, and
here I was half in the real world, half in middle earth, with a
swollen hand, doing my best to dismantle the last eight months of
training like an animal. My punishment would be the hills session to
come in the morning.
This
fucking sport, it's all or nothing. But it also means a life of doing
nothing, missing it all, in the slight hope that one day, you'll win
everything!
