14th – I came 14th!

14th – I came 14th!

That’s the best that I’ve ever done in a race.

It was supposed to be a fun run but I outran all the pesky kids. I always do well in races when nobody else is racing! Once I’d got past the ten year olds, I was home and dry.

I have form for taking things really seriously when everyone else is out to have fun. It was just like the Tatton Yule romp when everyone else was running whilst drinking brandy, dressed as an elf.

Now, if only they could make it less hilly…

My first Welsh race.
Ras Hywl


Thank you for having me – now more importantly, wine and Love Island

It’s wankered Wednesday!

Chin chin up yer bum!

Things that I have worried about whilst running alone

Things that I have worried about whilst running alone and excellent ways in which Ito deal with them.

I bumped into a lady yesterday who was walking her dogs. I gave her a bit of a fright as I appeared from nowhere like a ninja. We had a chat about how lonely it was in the woods. She assured me that it’s a very safe area but she was the one that shit herself…

Whilst it’s very unlikely that anybody would attack me because I’m quite a big unit and I’m loud, I have given it some thought.

I still go out by myself. I’ll quite happily run in the dark or really early in the morning. I’ve no problem at all with running through woodland alone but sometimes my imagination runs riot.

It’s scary out there…

There are so many potential incidents that could occur whilst you run alone.

I’ve thought about all scenarios and can honestly say that I’m ready for anything.

My fears are many and varied. They range from the quite ordinary fear of lone man on the canal without a dog (who’s probably just smoking skunk) to the quite frankly, stupid.

They are, in no particular order;

Having a heart attack and nobody being around to help me. Don’t worry I know the information in relation to coughing is not a good idea. I’d give it a go though, if I thought that it might help.

Getting lost in remote woodland or a bog and losing mobile signal. I have imagined the one hand poking out of the bog, as the mountain rescue find me, too late.

Getting my white trainers muddy. I bought some Asics that should have been £150. They were reduced to £88 because they are the brightest, whitest trainers that you ever did see. No other fucker wanted them because they are a ridiculous colour. The first time that I wore them I had to wade through black mud. I fucking hate mud. They are no longer white but I have to clean them as soon as they become dirty.

Getting mugged. I have made up all sorts of bizarre scenarios in my head after somebody told me about two big burly men who upon finishing a fell half marathon got mugged by two crack addicts who came out of a field, over a Gate and demanded money. This was in the middle of the British countryside. The two men protested and said that they hadn’t got any money with them as they’d just finished a race. The two crack addicts who were absolutely off it, didn’t believe them and threatened to stab them. A fight ensued and the two burly runners legged it after punching the crack addicts.

Getting attacked by a dog – quite an ordinary and rational fear for a runner but what would I do?

Getting attacked by geese. They’re violent fuckers around our way!

Getting attacked by a rat. You should have seen the size of it. It was fucking massive!

Getting trampled and killed by cows when they stampede in a field. A heard once followed me with malicious intent as I ran past their field. I was certain that they were looking to get out so as to kill me.

Getting attacked by a knife wielding maniac wearing a ski mask or balaclava.

Don’t worry, I have carefully laid out plans for all attacks by both animals and psychos.

All involve squaring up to the assailants and asking them “do you really fancy your chances motherfucker?”if that doesn’t work, plan B is jumping in the canal. Then there’s plan C, the obvious, twatting them with a handy stick and plan D for the murderer is to Facebook live him so that everyone knows what he looks like. Plan E is outrunning them whilst screaming. This definitely works on the Geese as I have used this technique repeatedly and finally if all else seems to have failed, head but anything that moves whilst shouting

“You want some?”

The cows have their own emergency strategy. Obviously I will climb a tree.

At any given point whilst running, I have my keen eyes looking out for potential muggers/murderers/rapists but also Geese, rabid dogs, hard squirrels and vermin that could potentially do me harm. I’m also looking for implements/ weapons to defend myself with.

I’m also scared of falling and laying injured for days, unable to speak or ring for help. This is why I don’t like fell running where there are tufts of grass just waiting to trip me up. Fucking fells are overrated. They are full of mud, psycho drug addled muggers and trip hazards.

Insects can fuck off too. Its just getting to the point In the year when I swallow about four flies per long run as I run with my mouth open.
I’ve often wondered what would happen if they somehow survived in my stomach and then laid eggs. Would the larvae eat me from inside?

Shitting myself.

Pissing myself.

Especially if I’m been eaten from the inside by maggots.

Finding a dead body, in the canal or undergrowth.

Seeing someone drowning.

Falling in the canal by accident.

I have strategies in place for all of these potential incidents. I have 999 already typed into my phone and Facebook live is always ready to go.

In case of finding a dead body, I know to not touch anything so as to not implicate myself.

If anyone should be drowning, I will take my trainers off so as not to dirty them before attempting the rescue.

Stay safe out there, especially all you muggers, I’ve got a machete in my bum bag!

Holiday odds

Holiday odds

If I were a betting man I could have given you odds on this shit!

First load of washing on within twenty four hours of arrival.

Dangerous getting me to drive to Beaumaris and then saying “oooooh look, we could go crabbing on the pier…”

Ted has lost his only pair of shoes. We think that it happened at the beach. He’s only lost one but he can’t wear the other. I have told him that he will have to fucking hop.
He has got flip flops so don’t worry…unless it snows.

Ted has worn and dirtied four, I repeat FOUR outfits.

We didn’t bring a towel for Trevor. Trevor the dog that won’t get his paws wet in a puddle has been in the fucking sea twice!
He has been cleaned with my towel hence the washing machine being on.

We had ice cream for breakfast at the ice cream shop. By the time that this afternoon came around, I was so hungry that there was an unfortunate incident with some Marks&Spensive Melton Mowbray snack size pork pies. I had just one as i don’t like pork pies, whilst everyone was indisposed in the sand dunes. To Dangerous’s disgust, I ate all of them. I spent the afternoon feeling sick. Dangerous spent the afternoon saying that he was glad that I felt sick because I’m
A “glutinous bitch”

The weather was nice until we arrived at the beach whereupon, I shimmied out of my only knickers and into my bikini bottoms. I expertly got my bikini top on and took my bra off under my top. As soon as I had done this, the sun went in.

The sun stayed in for the next two hours. As soon as we left the beach, it came out again.

I have failed to bring my knickers with me. I know that I got seven pairs out but they aren’t in the case.

I told the three little shits that they could have bacon and eggs for breakfast but I’ve not brought eggs. I bought some…I got them out…I put them in a bag…where is the bag with the eggs?

Trevor doesn’t like;

The Beastie Boys
Kate Tempest
The Young Fathers
Kanye West’s “Golddigger”
Alt J

All these made him howl in the car.

The three little shits didn’t like

The Beastie Boys
Kate Tempest
The Young Fathers
Alt J

However, They did like “Golddigger”

Because it has swearing. I said that I quite liked the swearing too but had a problem with the misogyny.

We arrived home just in time for an England match. Who knew?

Now – who is local to Pen Mon and needs a good run tomorrow morning?

Running with a hangover. Know the facts!

Running with a hangover.

Know the facts!

It has long been known that getting up and going for a run when one has overindulged in the Chablis is going to either “kill or cure” but do you know all the facts about Running whilst hungover?

Stop – think about it!


If you get it wrong, you could spew on your hundred quid trainers!

First you need to ascertain, are you actually hungover or could you still be pissed?

There is a massive difference. You need to be very sure what you are dealing with.

A simple test is to put on a Taylor Swift Tune. If you start hopping around and pretending that you’ve got a microphone, then you are still pissed. If the sound of Taylor being all chirpy makes you want to strangle someone and vomit, then you are hungover.

Never run whilst still pissed. It can be extraordinarily dangerous. The owner of your local kebab shop may become very annoyed if you lick his windows, and demand that he open up at 9.00 am whilst wearing your Asics and fluorescent bum bag. Everyone knows that you can’t eat a kebab whilst running.

Other problems that can arise from running whilst still pissed are

Hedge jumping.

Falling over kerbs

Getting run over.

Talking to ninety two year old Mrs Smith from up the road about men you’d quite like to bang.

Zig zagging.

Scaring people with your breath.

Getting thrown out of park run for tripping people up whilst shouting “HA,TRY BEATING ME NOW MOTHERFUCKER!”

Failing to set your Runkeeper/Garmin/ properly so that you fail to record your running prowess.

Talking to the lady on Runkeeper and telling her that she is in fact wrong about how far you’ve run and you are actually running much fucking faster than she has suggested.

Dancing and singing loudly to music that you can hear through earphones that no fucker else can.

Having a little cry when Adele comes on in your earphones.

Hopping aboard a barge on your local run down the canal to pretend to be Rose on the Titanic.

The test of a true hangover is to get a nice policeman to get you to blow in the bag.
I approached a policeman, sat in his van this morning on Brooklands Road and he didn’t seem keen on giving me a breath test “in the name of science or for any other fucking reason!”

You’re going to have to make the call yourself with the Taylor Swift thing.

Once you have ascertained that you do in fact have a hangover, Here are some top tips.

Plan your route well. Make sure that if you are going to vomit in someone’s garden, that it’s someone that you aren’t keen on.

Keep away from canals as cyclists don’t take kindly to being forced off the tow path and into the water.

The Geese at the moment are particularly violent which fucks with your head when hungover. Trying to headbut the little bastards whilst hanging out of your arse is particularly difficult.

Make sure you’ve got the right kit – you will need your oldest running clothes on and the following;

Fluids, it might be wise to take a shopping trolley full of large bottles Of Lucozade Sport and water for all your hydration needs. You can borrow one from your local Aldi, they won’t mind.

Toilet roll, in case you need a shit.

Clean pants in case you get caught short and shit yourself.

A first aid kit, in case of running related injuries. You can put this in the shopping trolley with your nine pack of toilet roll and spare clothes.

A good friend to take photos of you, should you fall and to moan incessantly to about how unbelievably ill you feel. If they are a very good friend, they can also assure you that any fears you have about the previous evening are unfounded.

A hat and sun glasses to disguise your shame.

Paracetamol, ibuprofen.

A hair of the dog and a packet of crisps waiting for you at home.

Now, if you see a Lycra clad, fluorescent bum bag wearing runner that looks like they could have shit their pants pushing a supermarket trolley overloaded with water, Lucozade sport and being followed by two pissed off looking Canadian Geese, heading towards a kebab shop, you will know that they had a pretty fucking heavy night out, last night!

Top ten reasons to Get up off your arse today.

Top ten reasons to Get up off your arse today.

About twelve years ago, I started running.

Some things you need to know about this are;

It wasn’t easy. I am not naturally athletic. I was a bit tubby. I like watching telly.

Prior to this, I enjoyed the odd packet of Silk Cut and I drank too much. I spent my life at work or in the pub. We used to walk past coffee shops and shout,

“OY, THE FUCKING PUB IS OPEN! WHY ARE YOU IN THERE?” At people we didn’t know for fun.

I’m like most women, I enjoyed hockey and netball at school but wasn’t especially good at either. I hated cross country. I couldn’t throw, so I was always the last to be picked for rounders. Someone once shouted that I had corned beef legs whilst I was playing hockey and this seriously fucked with my head. After school, I just stopped exercising. My weight went up if I was content and happy, and went down if I was anxious, worried or unhappy. As I went through my late twenties and early thirties, I put a bit of timber on (that’s an understatement) and it stayed there. I had a body like a barrel. It (the barrel) stayed there for too long. It made me fucking miserable because I couldn’t buy the sort of clothes that I wanted to.

Can I just state the bleeding obvious here. I’m not having a go at people who embrace their curves, enjoy being larger or feel that fat is a feminist issue. I’m saying that I didn’t enjoy being overweight and pretty unhealthy.

And then one day, I sort of realised that if I wanted to have kids, I’d need to lose some weight, give up going out boozing all the time and stop smoking.

I started with swimming and lost some weight.

I’ve had three children. After giving birth to all of them, I was between twelve and a half to thirteen stone. In between each pregnancy, I managed to get back down to a size twelve.
This was down to Running, and the delights of a Davina DVD.

Running is a pastime that I told myself I couldn’t do for over thirty five years. We sometimes tell ourselves that we can’t do things because we are scared to try them. We are scared that we won’t be that good or worse still that people might laugh at us.

I can remember thinking before I had kids that I would always be overweight. I gave in to the negative thoughts and let them consume me.

I’ve never been thin, I’ve always wanted to be a size eight but I’m not built that way. I’d say that I’ve spent most of my adult life as a size fourteen, wanting to be a twelve. At my biggest, though I have been a size eighteen. My sister is naturally much slimmer than me and I was always very envious of her. I wanted bony bits and I never had them. Try as we might, us women, we are always envious of someone’s curves or slenderness, big boobs or little. I am very hung up on body image as I suspect lots of other women are too.

At the age of thirty eight, I did my first 10k. A year later, I had done my first half marathon. When I hit forty. I did my one and only marathon. I trained by myself, it was lonely and boring. I raced by myself. It wasn’t much fun.

Naturally, I had lied to myself. Running marathons is horrific but addictive. It wasn’t my one and only. I’ve just booked to do my seventh. This is because I didn’t give up and then I made friends with people who were a lot better at Running than me and enjoyed my incessant moaning, turning up late and being naughty.

Last week, I started Yoga. Tomorrow, I’m going to try Reggaecize. I Believe that they are going to teach me to twerk.

What I’m trying to say is this.

“Get your arse off the fucking sofa and try something new! Give Running a try, take up badminton, squash, boxing or boot camp.

Don’t give in, if you’ve just had a baby or you’ve just eaten one too many cream cakes because you’ll be a bit tubby and miserable.

Over the years, I have tried Boxing – fucking great fun but I pissed myself whilst skipping and couldn’t do sit ups.

Kettle bells, they wouldn’t let me go back because I was dangerous to the other participants.

Step aerobics, they wouldn’t let me go back because I was a danger to myself.

Swimming, I look like I’m drowning.

Boot camp – I don’t like mud on my hands. I parked in the dogging car park and everyone laughed at me.

Tennis, no seriously – it’s not funny. I have no hand and eye coordination.

I have tried going to the gym. Despite it being full of size eight toned, athletic, tanned pretty women that didn’t seem to sweat, I finally got used to it and almost started to enjoy it until I bumped into an ex boyfriend after I’d been on a running machine. I never went back.

Back to reasons to get up off your arse.

I promised ten.

Exercise gives you endorphins
You will meet new people and make friends.
If you need to lose weight, it will help.
It helps with anxiety and depression
If you’re outside, you’ll get a tan
You can buy trainers and nice leisurewear
You could become a Running wanker!
You can moan about shit to people and they have to listen.
You get medals and stuff for finishing races.
You get out of the house and away from your kids for an hour or so.
Some of this stuff is actually free! Well – Running is!

And if you think “I can’t” then consider this.

There is always someone worse than you. The very fact that you tried something makes you a better person that the one that is still sat on their arse, on the sofa.

I am possibly one of the worst runners within my group of regular Running buddies but I’m better than other people. It’s not about that though (apart from on race day). It’s about getting out there in your new Asics trainers at 5.30 am.

We have a group called “Run Bitch Run” if you require any encouragement with starting running.

It’s ace, we have beginners, intermediate and advanced running wankers.

I have run every morning this week

I have run every morning this week and I’ve just been to the osteopath to try and sort myself out for starting to train for the Loch Ness marathon.
I was in touch with an old Running friend that I’ve not seen for about a year last night. She’s in the same boat, fucked up hip flexors.
She asked if I was doing anything about it and I replied to say “no – not unless you call moaning about it, doing anything!”

I’ve not run more than five miles for a couple of weeks but I’ve started to really enjoy my own company for four or five miles, first thing in the morning. I can’t stand running more than ten miles by myself though and often resort to chatting to people on my travels.

On bank holiday Monday, the canal was full of runners. I play a game called “how many people can I get to say good morning to me?”

It’s an excellent game that anyone can play. You just smile broadly at people and shout “MORNING!”

I got thirty seven hellos and twelve smiles.

This morning I only got two hellos as it was rather early.

I am missing my running buddies. I’m not fit enough to do the long Sunday run at the moment. They are all doing the Bluebell run on Sunday. I will be terribly jealous when I see all the photos of them…unless it’s raining. If it’s raining sideways and windy, I will feel all smug as I look at the photos of them in their muddy trainers.

On my running travels, at 5.00am, I have been very conscious of the thousands of snails that just seem to be coming home from a night out clubbing. They don’t seem to be aware that in their pursuit of getting across the pavement, they could be crushed to death or worse still lose their home and have people think that they are a common slug.

I don’t like slugs. Slugs look rather like dog shits.

I do like snails. I always pick them up when they look like they might be in danger. I transfer them to the side of the pavement that they looked like they were heading for.

Imagine making your way wearily Home after a night out on the piss to be stood on by a massive Asics trainer. It doesn’t bare thinking about.

I have come over all colourful and cheery in my attire.

Stripy dress Zara £15.99 current season
Yellow trousers Zara current
Pink dress Zara sale last year, about a tenner.

Shell snails own.


To anyone brave enough to have undertaken a marathon today…

To anyone brave enough to have undertaken a marathon today…

May your sunburn turn to an excellent tan and not peel.

May you be happy with your time despite the heat.

May your blisters be not too bad.

May your chub rub or bit where a piece of clothing chafed you heal quickly.

May your race photos show you to be the athlete that you know you are so that you can use one as your profile picture.

Tomorrow, let your legs not give way when you try and force them to walk downstairs.

May you not put half a stone on in the coming week because you eat all the pies and have a week off the Running.

May your toenails not fall off when you’re due to go on your holidays in June.

If you ran for to raise money for charity, may you reach your target.

If you ran in fancy dress, may it not smell too bad and the dry cleaners be understanding.

If you ran 26.2 miles today, you are fucking epic. You are a legend. Now having made sure that you are rehydrated, get yourself a fucking massive drink. You deserve it. And that’s to you Mo too!

Chin chin, up yer bum.

I have just undertaken my first little plod around since the marathon last week

I have just undertaken my first little plod around since the marathon last week.

On Monday and Tuesday, I couldn’t actually walk downstairs. The little shits got away with murder as we’ve got a three storey house. They played the game where they shouted me From one end of the house and then laughed when I arrived ten minutes later.

On Wednesday and under the supervision of a trained professional, I inserted a sterilised needle into two of my toes which has blisters under the nails.

The trained professional was my mum. She’s not a nurse or anything with a medical background but she made me sterilise the needle and then pissed herself laughing at my blundering.

Whilst sterilising the needle, I naturally burned my fingers as I hadn’t considered that the heat from the gas ring would conduct up the needle. Once was stupid, however I did it twice.

Having heard that the weather forecast is good for this week, I have undertaken the first pedicure of the season. This took me two hours of filing, cutting and pruning. I have painted my toenails on my size eight hooves a very garish red. I’ve worked on the principle that, if the nails are red, you are less likely to notice that two of my toes are purple and the nails are bruised. They were painted a very delicate translucent pearly hue before and they looked truly fucking minging.

I digress, which I am prone to do…

Back to the run.

We managed a paltry 7.5 miles. I was due out on Thursday morning but we decided at ten past five that it was raining. Rain wouldn’t normally stop a run but we concluded that we owed ourselves a break.

I’ve managed to put six fucking pounds on this week.

I have eaten and drunk like a very hungry piglet having a growth spurt. A piglet that thought they couldn’t put weight on as they were an athlete. I like the idea of an athletic piglet.

And no booze. Fucksake…

We are having a week off. I’m not sure what I’m to do with my hands though. Maybe that’s why people knit!

Twenty four hours later

Twenty four hours later.

For al those people who have watched a marathon in awe, looked on with admiration at first, the proper athletes, then the skinny machines that aren’t quite professional athletes but not far off, the good for age, the slightly chubby but not too bad, the first timers, the ones that just gave it a go, the ones that look like they have problems with walking-let alone running, the ones doing it for charity and then lastly the bewildered fuckers in a pair of Converse. For those people who with tear in eye thought “I’d like to do that! What an accomplishment! I’m going to buy some trainers and give it a go!” For all those people that harbour dreams of athletic prowess or simply need a new challenge,

Let me whisper some words of wisdom to you…”Don’t do it. Don’t fucking bother mother fucker! Marathon running is a stupid pastime for masochists. It’s not big or clever. It’s neither noble nor magnificent.

Now, let me tell you why.

It hurts.

It breaks your body.

People say it’s a cheap way of keeping fit and healthy, but they are lying. It’s really, really fucking expensive. Have you seen the price of proper trainers and have you ever heard of a hard up sports physio?

Did I mention that it really fucking hurts? It’s DIY torture.

It hurts a lot.

The thought of running 26.2 miles hurts.

The training hurts.

It hurts because you can’t drink on a Saturday night because you’ve got your long run to do on a Sunday morning.

It hurts getting up at 5.15am on a Tuesday and a Thursday to run for forty five minutes before the little shits get up. This pain goes on for months and months. You have to trick yourself into doing the long runs by lying to yourself and saying that you’ll just do eight miles if it hurts.

There’s the inevitable muscle tears, stress fractures, lower back pain, IT band problems, Achilles problems, shin splints and all manner of other things that can go wrong with your body.

If you run a lot, you will have heard of parts of your body, that no normal mortal will have. You will have heard of them because they hurt when they shouldn’t.

If you sat on your arse on the sofa with some cake or a nice bottle of wine, you’d never have these niggles, aches or pains.

The night before a marathon hurts. As you lie awake, wiling yourself to sleep but find yourself incapable you will wonder why the fuck you have entered into this ridiculous pastime. It really hurts when you’ve finally got to sleep and the alarm goes off on the morning of the marathon. When You rise from your bed, almost hallucinating from lack of sleep, you need to eat something which hurts because you feel nauseous with the anticipation.

The application of liberal amounts of Vaseline may ease your chafing. Eating as many Ibuprofen and paracetamol as you dare might kid you into believing that this isn’t going to be that bad.

All this to stop the inevitable hurt.

You will leave your possessions in a draughty hall or tent and then freeze your fucking tits off for an hour before the race begins. If you don’t do this, you run the risk of being too hot for the next three to six hours of your life.

No matter how well prepared you are (and I am not) there will be a problem with your kit. A bum bag that rubs, a trainer too tight, leggings that cut into you. These things will all hurt. They will rub the skin from the affected area until it hurts a fucking lot.

It particularly hurts whilst you’re doing it, the first six miles hurt because you know that you’ve got another twenty to do. The first six miles hurt because you are only just getting warmed up. The next six miles hurt less but unfortunately you are already anticipating that the final six miles are going to fucking kill you. You will worry that you need a poo or wee. You will look out for portaloos for miles and then shit in a bush to save time.

Are you hydrated enough? You don’t want to drink too much because you once talked to someone who drank too much. Should you try eating a gel? Don’t touch the gels. They are sperm samples injected with fruit additives to make them more palatable. The adding of fruit derivatives still doesn’t make them palatable.

You might be lucky enough to have a friend with you. DON’T FUCKING LOSE THEM! Keep looking for them. If someone gets in between you and them, simply elbow that twat out of the way.

But nothing and I mean nothing,prepares you for the last six miles. They hurt. Sometimes they don’t but usually they do. I once ran a marathon and didn’t hit the wall. I usually head but the wall repeatedly.

It’s simply a case of mind over matter but what if the mind is weak?

Let’s just say it hurts.

The end

But it’s not..

You wake the next morning and you try to swing the appendages formally know as your legs out of bed but you can’t. You will need to use your arms to position your feet on the floor. As you do this, you will realise that at least two of your toes are now gigantic blisters.

Your shoulders will hurt, your back, your neck, fingers, elbows, the bits without skin from the chafing.

You will get to the landing and fall down the stairs because you can’t straighten your legs. If you are clever you will come down sideways, one foot at a time whilst holding on to the bannister.

And as you are walking around looking like you are doing a bad zombie impression because you are so stiff, you will pick up your phone and see a picture of yourself on social media. The picture will be of yourself with the corners of your mouth turned downwards, gasping for air, looking anything other than athletic, if you are like me, looking a bit portly and wobbly. Nothing at all like a runner. This is the biggest hurt. This will hurt more than anything.

I have two toes that have blisters under the nail and my trainer was so tight on one foot that my foot is swollen and bruised.

In essence, it hurts, save yourself the pain. Take it from a woman that knows.

But me, I’m doing the Loch Ness marathon in September.

It will be fine. I’ve already signed up. My body won’t hurt by then…

Chin chin, up yer bum Mofos.