BEHIND every runner in this weekend’s London Marathon are at least 15 people sick to death of hearing about it and willing it to be over.
Here’s how to make sure that 26.2 miles of agony for your friend, colleague or relative isn’t followed by 26 days of moaning about being insufficiently supported by you.
Don’t moan about getting up early to be at the start line. You’ll get the sordid pleasure of seeing guys vaseline their balls, and some porn sites would charge a premium for that.
Find a pub with a telly, so you can look out for your mate while having a morning gin. Memorise a few details about the runners around them to gain favour afterwards by slagging off ‘that wanker in the rhinoceros costume who didn’t even look like a rhino’.
Make sure your supportive sign isn’t too heavy. It takes real stamina to hold a sign up for several hours, and you don’t want to find yourself hitting ‘the wall’ and throwing it in a bin before they pass you.
Take a sick bag. Not for your friend, for yourself. They all crap in the gutters like Paula Radcliffe and most of them have open wounds for nipples.
Claim to have seen someone famous looking much more fucked than they were. But make sure to choose the kind of low-level try-hard celebrity who does run the marathon, like Greg James, Natalie Cassidy or one of them off TOWIE.
To really save time go straight to the finish line with a wine box and use the tracking app to claim you’ve seen them at locations ranging from the Cutty Sark to Tower Bridge to Blackfriars. By Blackfriars you can make any shit up, they’ll be hallucinating through exhaustion anyway.
