”Got your number!” FUCK OFF!!!

Hello, OK, Rebekah Wade, Piers Morgan, Mark Frith etc take note. Forget bars or restaurants or clubs or glitzy film premieres in London. If you really wanna catch some slebs red-faced, panting, sweaty and off-guard, the event to be at simply HAS to be the Great North Run, daaaahlings. It was a veritable parade of the great, the good and the BBC Weather team. Look, I’ll do your job for you…

“There’s disgraced King of Spin Alistair Campbell flanked by a fluorescent T-shirted bouncer. Shame – him getting torn limb-from-limb in a traditional Labour heartland would have made for a real spectacle … Wooooh, that Matthew Pincent’s a big boy, isn’t he? Fnar fnar … It’s Paula Radcliffe! No, hang on, where’s she gone? Oh, there she is, she’d just turned sideways … Why does lecherous granddad Jimmy Saville wear such perilously tight shorts? Surely there’s a great danger that his gnarled old boys might escape from the barracks and scare thousands of young ladies and small children. Oh yeah, his face does that already … There goes Micky Adams. If sweat alone could keep Leicester in the Premiership, he’d have them safe by Christmas … Is that Emily off ‘Emmerdale’? She’s got the pigtails, but to be absolutely sure I’d need to hear that stupid little voice – confirmation I could well do without …”

For the second weekend in a row, I had to put up with all manner of forced “wackiness” and yet more twats in 118 running vests, and onlookers humouring them and finding the whole thing hilarious. Fuck running 13.1 miles –THAT’S what I call endurance and stamina.