Wacky races

The assortment of pasty, freakily-shaped and spindly oddballs, hardly an advertisement for glowing rude health. The stench of Ralgex and Deep Heat. The wailing of ambulance sirens. The crunching of discarded plastic cups. And, of course, the "wacky" outfits ("Hey, wouldn't it be simply HILARIOUS if I dress up like Elvis / those two blokes from the 118-118 advert?"). Yes, I went along to the Robin Hood Half-Marathon in Nottingham in my capacity as boyfriend of one of the entrants. I decided years ago that running is a torment I could well do without, and yesterday failed to persuade me otherwise.

And am I alone in thinking that naming a chain of sports and fitness clothing stores Sweatshop is in incredibly poor taste?