Shit It. It’s The London Marathon.

I ran a marathon once. This is what I learnt:

1. The immediate pre-race preparations are vital. The difficulty lies in achieving the delicate balance between taking on board the requisite fuel and not turning your stomach into a disused cement mixer. Eat as early as possible on the day and then evacuate yourself at your leisure in your own lavatory. You’ll then avoid the sensory degradation of the oncourse portaloos. There are things I saw and smelt in the toilets in Barcelona that will pollute my eyes and nostrils forever. If you are overcome after you’ve arrived in the starting area, be warned that loo roll may be sparse. I had to use two facewipes. Miraculously it worked. It was the anal hygiene equivalent of the loaves and fishes.

2. Don’t be afraid to change your race strategy. My tactic was to start slowly and gradually build up pace throughout the duration. My execution of the first part of the gameplan was magnificent. I started slowly. But then maintained the same speed before slowing even further before the end. It wasn’t so much running a marathon. More mincing one.

3. Being last out of 15,000 is funny at least. And you won’t get overtaken from there. Don’t fret if Rupert the Bear/plump women in bras/a man pushing a piano whizz past you. You’ll overtake your rivals later when proceedings resemble less of a foot-race and more a slow-moving queue of sweaty desperation.

4. Make the most of the end. It’s the only bit you’ll enjoy. Get shitfaced on Powerade, molest a steward, prance around in one of those tinfoil pashminas they give you. If you’ve got the energy.

5. Wear your medal. Everywhere. At work. In the shower. In bed. Wear it until an unsightly welt appears on your neck. You’ve earned it.