A National Pastime

Irritated by the pavement-clogging joggers pounding the streets of London, Eve Jones is heading to Aintree for some hearts a-pounding, eyes-on-stalks action

IT has to be said I’ve never had the makings of an athlete. I’ve neither the genetics nor the inclination to whip myself into any shape that you can’t perfect by sitting down on something. Trouble is, in London the volume of match-screening pubs and overpriced gyms for otherwise sedentary city dwellers means one is being constantly subjected to the superior sporting prowess of others.

Just when I thought the “new year, new me” jogging brigade had reverted to pizza and pints and I could go out without being mown down by the Lycra-clad, wobbly bottomed blighters, another crowd has appeared. And this pounding spandex band of London Marathoners is far worse. They aren’t secretly hoping to twist an ankle and get home for EastEnders before they vomit. They are serious and smug faced. They won’t tell you how miserable they are. They’ll say they like running, that you should join them running, that when you break the 10-mile barrier it’s quite therapeutic running. Tosh. They hate it. They have blisters. Their knees are in clip, their nipples are raw and if they hear Eye Of The Tiger one more time they’ll lose it, possibly even commit murder.

I am impressed (if baffled) when people complete the 26.2-mile slog. I’m humbled by what they raise for great causes and I’ll cough up my £20s as generously as the next sucker. But watch? Bugger off. I’ll just pull out my own toenails and hobble to the pub to compare notes, thank you very much.