There are a lot of things I hate.  Disappointing people is one of them.

I also hate the fact that after many years of playing the lottery, and actually winning £10 last night I got excited.  Until I thought about how many kidneys I could have bought with the money I have spent to actually get that £10.  And sure, I already have 2 working kidneys, but I want more.  They look fun.  And they are interesting.  I once had dinner with a kidney.  Well OK, it was a person who had kidneys.  But about half way through the meal all I could think about was ripping her damn kidneys out.  She was fun.  You know, in that “I want to rip your kidneys out and eat them because it will be more interesting than hearing about your new epilator.”  And while on that subject.  An epilator?  A device used to literally grab big chunks of hair and rip them from the root up right out of your body.  And this is dinner talk?  Why didn’t she just say “I pulled chunks of pubic hair out with my bare hands.  And no lube.  I now have an awesome rash!  But at least I am not as hairy as a Sasquatch anymore.  Wanna look?” instead of giving me detailed information while I am trying to eat my steak?  But that was a long time ago.  And the therapy worked.  Kind of.  I still have a slight twitch.  And it sure as hell ain’t in the trouser department when I think about her.

But I fear you think I am moaning.  So I will move on.  And moan about something else.

I hate pilates adverts.  There is one on the TV at the moment while I am writing this.  A woman lost loads of weight just by doing pilates.  The ad shows clearly that she did by the fact that in her before pic, she is wearing a baggy T-Shirt and no makeup.  Oooh…you chunky munky!  A BAGGY T-SHIRT!  Wild.  Just….wild.

But most of all, I hate throwing up.  And this is where the post gets a little more graphic.  But you were expecting that.

A few weeks back I ate something I shouldn’t of.  No, I didn’t go all Dr Lecter and eat that girls kidneys.  I ate a sausage that had been in a fridge for a week…that had the door left slightly ajar.  So the fridge was a little less fridge and a little more bacteria fest.  So said sausage had been breeding like a spring time bunny on those little blue tablets that you may have received unsolicited mail about once or twice in life.  And speed.  And there are some reeeeally slutty girl bunnies about who are more interested in putting it out than cleaning up the little bunny droplets they produce.  And Mr Speed driven blue tablet boy is seeing all those fluffy tails and is really not thinking about his job as a construction worker, and is instead bounding about with an impressively hard…..hang on…why the hell am I talking about bunnies with erections?  Lets get back to the sausage.  Oh.  Yeah I see that now. 

So.  This sausage.  It was a little on the funky side.  But that is OK because I was a few beers in when I ate it, and so my taste buds had no idea what was passing over them in to the intestinal tract where all hell was about to break loose.

It didn’t right away.  It took a few hours.  But I knew.  I knew something was brewing by the “ohhh…I don’t feel right..” comments I was making to my wife who said “I am pregnant.  I have my own issues.  Suck it up you weak feeble idiot and go get me some milkshake”.  She had a point.

A few hours later I decided that going to bed was the order of the day.  So I planned ahead.  I cleared a path out of the room.  I left the toilet seat up.  The light on.  The door open.  The traffic lights were set to stay on green.  And then it happened.

I didn’t even get that warning you get where you think “OK, I have about 15 seconds…” and you can get moving.  It hit me like a surprise kick in the nuts.  It all happened in slow motion, while going at the speed of light.

Reaction 1 – Get out of bed.  Reaction 2 – Cover mouth with hand.  Reaction 3 – Run.  Like the bloody wind.

About half way to the toilet, the size of my mouth to cubic capacity of stomach contents managed to become imbalanced.  The contents overtook my mouth size with a venom.  It was starting to seep out from between my fingers.  Game over.  As I reached the door to the bathroom, I started the process of moving my hand away.   What came next was projectile vomiting that reached such a distance that North Korea has approached me about about supplying the technology to transport their warheads.  From the edge of the bathroom, I actually managed to get it INTO the toilet.  Yeah.  I know.  Impressive huh!  What isn’t so impressive is that I also covered the floor.  Cabinet.  Bath.  Sink.  My clothes.  My hair.  The cat. 

Why was the cat in there!  Did he not get the memo I sent out warning of an imminent event happening in the toilet?

About 20 seconds after I had completely emptied my stomach, I stood back to see the carnage.  Eyes weeping and puke dribbling down my chin and out of my nose.  About that time my wife appeared and said “The floor cleaner and sponge is in the second draw down” and wandered back off to bed.  So on my hands and knees I got and started the clean up operation. 

The cat was last seen licking itself clean.  Looking a little confused that although it tastes and even looks like bits of sausage, something isn’t right.

It has always been said that the Germans are a little on the crazy side.  When I say “It has always been said”, I actually mean “I am making this part up”.  But what I am not making up is the story of a German man that married his cat.  As it laid there dying.  So I guess it CAN be said that they are a little on the crazy side then.

Marrying a dying cat?  What a guy!  Why not punch it in the gut just after it says “I do!” too?  You know…he is obviously marrying it for it’s money, but geez…what is it gonna have?  “Your cat…Cecilia…has left her worldly belongings to her husband Uwe.  The belongings consist of a bag of catnip and some pouches of food.”  Dufus.  What were you expecting?  Hidden treasure?  Gold coated fur-balls?  To sell it’s kidney as part of the Pussycat Shared-Organ Feline Foundation?  (Or PS-OFF for short)

Side note:  A man called Uwe?  What is he?  A ManSheep hybrid?  That would be a more fun news story though…German sheep marries cat.

Now, I can understand his loss.  I also love my cats.  Sure, I don’t want to have sexual relations with them, and they are ALWAYS the little spoon in the bed because I like to dominate.  But I just don’t get it.  He married it?  Was he just wanting to share her pain because generally, marriage will do that to a man.

But there is the one part I don’t understand (you know, apart from ALL of it).  Cats say 1 word and 1 word only.  Meow.  For instance:

Hey…Pussycat…do you want food?  MEOW!

Oi.  Tosspot…did you just throw up in my shoes?  MEOW!

MEOW! *cough* MEOW! *cough* – Fur-ball!  Result!  I shall leave that under his pillow!

MEOW! – I don’t care if you are sitting on the toilet…I want to come in!

MEOW! – I just left a dead mouse in your bed.

MEOW! – I don’t want to be the little spoon anymore.  Roll over.

MEOW! – I have just been hit by a car and lay here dying.

MEOW! – NO I DON’T WANT TO MARRY YOU YA SICK FREAK!

Meoooooowwwww – I am almost dead.

Silent and stiff as a board - I am dead.

See?  The only time they DON’T say MEOW! is when they have croaked it.  So when he married it, I find it highly unlikely that it was saying “I do! I do!”.

But then, as the NEWS STORY mentions:

“Cecilia is such a trusting creature. We cuddle all the time and she has always slept in my bed”

Yeah?  Well according to TV ads, I should buy a new mattress every 29 seconds because of bed bugs.  And if I don’t, I will be sharing the bed with millions of them.  You don’t see me marrying them though do you?  And we are close.  Very close.   They suck my blood.  You don’t get much closer than that without sharing a uterus.   

My cats also share my bed.  Even after hearing the words “Get the frig off of my pillow you furry annoying dumb stupid freakin little shit!  How many goddamn times do I have to tell you!”, I can generally be filled with an air of confidence that I will find said cat curled up on my bed.  Still not gonna marry it.

So.  In closing….if you marry your pet…I am gonna call you a freak.  Now.  Where is my cat.  I gotta get my spoon on.

By fun, I mean a day where death seemed like the way forward!

It started as many do.  I woke up.  Nothing unusual about that.  But I can’t say that the rest of the day followed my usual day. 

30 minutes after I got out of bed, I was standing in the shower, razor in hand, shaving my nipples.  Tingly!  I could give you some reason like “To help the plasters stick better” for my reason, but no, I was just feeling a little daring.  Smooth as a….erm…shaven nipple?  But on the plus side, the plasters did indeed stick better.  Which is what is was all about.  Honest.

Two hours later, I was stood in a tent with a hand full of vaseline down my underwear and rubbing my…well…lets just say “groinal area”.  It was while I had my hand down my shorts pleasuring myself infront of a tent full of men I didn’t know, that one of them walked up to me and said “Can I have some of that!”.  I considered a few things. 

1 – Punch him.  I mean geez…can’t he see that I am masturbating greasing myself up ready for the big event?

2 – Ask him out on a date and tell him that my wedding ring is actually just a friendship ring.  I mean hey, he uses safe greasing.  OK, so I would also have to turn gay, and well…he wasn’t a looker.  Nice nipples though.  He must use Vaseline a lot.  I am not kidding.  I am fairly sure he uses “man product” on them.  The way he put the Vaseline on them was like he was creating the statue of David.  It was weird.  I didn’t want to look, but wow…the guy finished WAY before the race started.  What is that all about?

3 – Hand him my tub of Vaseline, and feel good knowing I stopped him chaffing and having nipples that bleed to hell like I would do for any other runner.  Especially a woman runner.  And obviously I would need to watch, if not help her put it on.  And I would have to bring a camera so I could let her see how I did it.  What?  I am so NOT a perv.  Geez…you try and help someone, and get a label like that!

I went for number 2. I mean 3.  Dammit. 

Of course, as I looked around, I noticed a lot of men, hand down trousers, one eye twitching all in the name of “stopping a little chaffing”. 

A short while later, I ran for 4 hours.  I wont bother telling you about the race in detail.  Lets say:

37000 people.  People dressed up as the devil and many other things.  I was sweating.  It hurt a bloody lot.  My nipples are fine thank you.  I needed to use a little more vaseline ”down there” in future though as when I had finished, I got a touch cheese grated.  So if you ever want to know if my nuts are like balls of sharp metal…well…I just guess they are.  Oh, and I got sunburn.

As I crossed the finish line my slow run turned to a staggered walk.  My already diminished running style turned more to that of a wounded penguin.  I mean holy crap…I had done 20 mile training runs in my training, and could walk at the end.  But this time I had a walked like that of someone who had wandered down a dark alley, told the lady of the night to treat me a little rough and she then knocked me unconscious and inserted her piggy bank in to my anus.  Sideways.  And I hadn’t brought the Vaseline because some guy had used it all to smother his nipples and nuts in them earlier.

Later that night I had 3 beers and fell unconcious.  So.  Nothing new there than.

No, I am not on death row, nor am I awaiting my uber dose of “man pills” to come through the post so I can be buried in a tent after having a heart attack during the 19th time in a row with a woman of quite frankly marvelously dubious qualities in a night of passion mixed with alcohol, condoms and an inability to say no to a can of pringles.   The plain ones.  Lets not get too spicy now!

I expect you to all read that first line of the last paragraph in one breath.  I just tried in my head and lost 3 IQ points through a lack of oxygen.  Who needs a full stop to allow an intake of breath once in a while?  They just take up space.

Where was I?  Oh yes.  My death.  Yes, after what feels like 22 weeks of solid training (I say feels like…well, it WAS that long), the London marathon approaches faster than Speedy Gonzales on speed desperately seeking Susana toilet.  I in no way just called someone called Susan a toilet.  So don’t go giving me shit if your name is toilet. Susan.

I have learnt a lot in this 22 weeks of long runs and alone time.  I learnt that I have the ability to run a long way while not going mad from my own thoughts.  It may be because I just don’t have many of them.

I learnt that sitting down looking at my daughter is the best way to run a race, thus the preparation for a warm up half marathon race at Silverstone Race Circuit looked like this:

I learnt that if you use plasters with the stickiness of KY Jelly, they wont stay on.  And you will bleed hideously from the or both nipples.  After the last occurrence, I honestly thought 4 days later that I could actually peel one of my nipples off.  It was like a big scab.  I can tell you this for nothing…I didn’t put clothes pegs on them that night!  Wow they hurt.  I took a photo, but lets be honest…do you REALLY want to see my bleeding nipple?  You do?  Well you are just weird.

I also learnt to always make sure my MP3 player is charged, and to never lend my earphones to my wife.  I learnt this the hard way.  After she broke my earphones, I was left to do a long run with no music.  Running for 3 hours straight with no music can get a touch tedious as it is when running alone.  But…  Try watching toddler TV before you go out for a run.  And the last thing you hear and watch before you step out of the door is someone with no self esteem singing what can only be described as “What the hell.  You wrote that?  And decided to sing it?  On TV?  So my daughter can hear it?  What are you…stupid?????”.  OK so maybe I just prefer heavy metal to the theme tune to kids tv shows….but you try running for 3 hours with nothing but the noise of your own breathing, your feet hitting the ground, cars going past….and the same 1 line from said theme tun in your head.  3 hours.  1 line.  No I don’t think you are understanding the magnitude of how painful it was.  Poke yourself in the eye with the finger with the longest fingernail on it.  Do it.  Don’t say no.  DO IT!  There.  Did that hurt?  Now do it for 3 hours solid.  The trick is to NOT go postal.

Not as easy as it sounds huh!

Amongst this stuff I also learnt that people get what is affectionately known as “Runners Trots”.  The need to, after a bit of a run, take a crap.  Not always of the solid variety.  Now, I live in an area where I have to run a bit of a distance before ready to become one with nature and ruin some poor lil bunny wabbit’s or foxywoxy’s day, so I am happy to report that I have in no way needed to lose my lunch the gravitational pull way during a run.  Which is amazing considering I get told I am full of shit on a regular basis.

Warning:  Soppy “awwww….” moment approaching rapidly.

But one thing I have learnt is the generosity of some people.  People I have never actually met.  People as far away as the US, Canada and Australia.  I am in the UK before anyone says “The US isn’t that far away!  I am already here!”  It’s about me…not you.  Geez.  But anyway…as I was saying.  People who I have never met, although one day very much hope to, who read this site have donated £200 to the charity I am running for in this marathon between them.  From those who read this on a feed and don’t come to the site, the charity is Children with Leukaemia.  For those that come to the site…well, you should know.  If you don’t, look top right.  DING!  People giving money to someone they don’t know is something that I have always admired.  I therefore expect you to click HERE, HERE, HERE and a Mr Phil T McNasty (hint:  I don’t think that is his real name) who doesn’t seem to put a link to a site on his comments, to view the sites of the people that donated.  Guys…Gals…you rock!  It is a worthy charity doing some amazing work.  Having one daughter and another child on the way (I find out what flavour it is the day after the marathon…if I can walk up the stairs to the room), I can honestly say I hope I never have to deal with the charity or their work in a way other than fund raising.  But in the event that I do, I want the best care I can for my children and yours.

End soppy moment.  It has passed and is now put back in my pocket.  No, the OTHER pocket.

According to something I was sent, there is also a site you can go to where you put in my running number and can see how fast I am going over each 3 mile (5K) stretch.  I would give you that link, and indeed my running number…but I just don’t think you need to see “Well he started off  OK, then about mile 16 he started slowing down.  By 22 he was walking.  By 24 he was standing still with a little walking backwards mixed in.  By 24 he was dead.  But the good news is that he was carried over the finish line in a hearse.  So at least he got a finishers medal.  Shame he is now finished in more ways than one!”

So that is me.  Signing off…possibly for good.  Come to my funeral.  And bring snacks.  Or if you are in the UK and watching the marathon on the streets, when a guy who looks like the guy in the image at the top trots by looking like he is about to fall over passes you in a brightly coloured top with the words “Children with Leukaemia” on it, pictures of Mr Men on it and the name SIMON printed on it.  Well, that’s me. (there are over 1000 of us running it…so I wont be the only one in the brightly coloured shirt!  SO look out for the name!)

Yeah I know…my real name isn’t Sy.  Who’d have thunk it huh!  Surprise!

But should any of you feel the need to sponsor me…well, you can go HERE to do it.  Please?  I will show you my bum!  What do you say?  Have one less beer this weekend or one less glass of wine and give a couple of pounds, dollars, euros, whateverthehellcurrency you have?  No?  Why not? I got dressed up for you.  Wore the stockings.  Suspenders.  Fireman’s hat.

I hope to see you on the other side.  Of the race.  Not what may or may not happen after death.  Good luck.  You too.