Where is my mind?

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!