Johnno Allthwaite Marathon Man

"And a decent fuck to help you kip," I said, she blushed bright red.

"That's ridiculous!" he said.

"So, why was them other wankers so fucking useless," I pointed out, "They're shagged out with fucking training."

"For gods sake won't you take this seriously?" Lionel asked.

"Nope," I said, "Fuck the Olympics!"

That should have been that really, they all fucked off to Portugal and that and then suddenly part way through the London Olympics there was a copper busting our door down, "Oi Johnno!" Pc Tony Mulholland who was a mate of mine, yelled.

"Fuck off," I said.

"Fucking Olympic team needs you!" he said, "Some dopy twat forgot to take your name off the list and you're out number three Marathon entry.

"Fuck off!" I said, "It's four in the morning, I only had two hours kip."

"Come on!" he ordered, "We got the Subaru WRC outside, I ent passing up the chance of a ton up bash down the M1 just because you don't fancy it." he said.

I tried to kip in the car but the screaming of the siren kept me awake and then we was down the smoke and these fuckers was doing their nuts finding me some accreditation and some kit and al that what should have been done weeks before.

Almost before I knew it I was kitted out in Team GB kit and freezing me bollocks off at the Marathon start, god, I got the bloody cold shoulder treatment from everyone, obviously the other teams saw me as a threat, either that or a joke, but our lot cold shouldered me too, nobody wanted to share me fags, and to put the tin hat on it the ponce with the drinks sidled up and asked what I wanted in my bottle.

"Stella Artois mate," I said.

"You have got to be joking!" he said.

"No a can of Stella,"I said, "Savvy?"

Lionel was there, "Oh no, he'll want a ciggy break halfway as well."

"Now you mention it," I said, "Is there a chip shop anywhere about?" I asked.

They just fucked off, the BBC bloke interviewed the bloke as said I nicked his place, the other Brits ignored me and I was pretty pissed off.

Anyway we set off, the crowd cheered and me team mates led for the first hundred yards until all that training kicked in and their knees buckled and they slowed down to jog with the other fuckers, and still the fuckers cheered and waved the fucking Chinese made Union Jack flags, thousands of fuckers there were cheering and that lining the street ten deep or so, anyway no one wanted a chat so I jogged around on me own, there was a black bloke I thought I recognised but he reckoned he never been to Weatherfield, so I jogged along with him and his mates for a bit.

I had a bit of an up and downer when they hadn't got a tin of Stella for me at the drinks place, anyway the found me can of 4X after a couple of minutes but by then I was fucking last, and I was pissed off because its fucking awful being last with everyone taking the piss, so I got a move on and caught up a bit, there was a chip shop open but with folk about ten deep at the roadside it was obvious I wouldn't get served so I legged it a bit and then there was the drinks station again and all these cunts throwing their bottles on the road.

"Oi," I said, "Some poor fucker's got to clear those up!" and they looked at me like I was a piece of shit, pissed me off it did.

"You're," gasp, "A fucking," gasp, "Joke Allthwaite," this Brit bloke said as I caught him up.

"You want to smoke some of these," I said as I chucked him a Woodbine, "Help your breathing!"

He shook his head, it was fucking boring as we went round again, this time they had some Stella for me, went down a treat it did and then before I knew there was just me and these black lads jogging along, couple from Ethiopia and a couple of Kenyans, not bad blokes, bit scrawny, needed feeding up really, we went round Buckingham Palace and I remembered I left me camera phone at home.

"Any idea who's leading," I asked and they looked at me like I was a dickhead, "Fuck you then," I said and then it started raining.

"Fuck this for a game of soldiers," I said, "Too fucking cold for pratting about, see you down the pub after?" I said and I legged it.

There was this wanker on a motorbike who was pissing me off, he was sat backwards on the pillion and he was filming me as his mate rode, it's all very well but he was spraying me with water off of his back tyre and fucking laughing, "Don't you fucking laugh at me!" I said and I went to lay one on him, except his mate give it some welly and buggered off.

I stopped for a ciggy and the black lads caught up, puffing and blowing, running in single file they were, some bloke was doing his nut when I stopped at the drinks station again and had me another couple of cans of Stella and after a quick smoke I jogged off eventually.

Them black blokes was taking the piss, it weren't what I call running, sort of loping along instead of getting stuck in so it weren't long before I caught up and then there was such a fucking big gap in front we couldn't even see the other fuckers, I just stuck with the bunch of lads until I got bored, "Fuck it," I said and gave it a bit of welly.

It was really chucking it down with rain now with the rain landing and jumping back in the air again when I come round the last bend, all I wanted was me coat so I really legged it and jumped over this ribbon some twat had across the road, "Where's me fucking coat?" I asked when this cunt off of TV shoved a microphone in me gob.

"John Allthwaite, Olympic Gold Medalist!" he said, "How does that sound?"

"Uh, what?" I asked.

"You won!" he said, "You won Gold at the twenty twelve London Olympics!"

"Fucking hell," I said, "I never realised!"

"Is there anyone you want to thank, your trainer?" he asked.

"Yeah, Weatherfield Council for giving me the job on the bins what got me fit," I suggested, "The Lads down the Flying Horse, the." I couldn't really think,"Sandra for letting me fuck her half price."

The TV bloke looked really worried, "So to what do you ascribe your outstanding performance to," he asked, "Training, diet perhaps?"

"Ten pints of Stella most nights," I said, "And fags to steady the nerves," I added, "Woodbines mainly!"

"Was the altitude training a key component?" the bloke asked.

"Oh yeah, if shagging Suzanne on Ilkley Moor is altitude training!" I agreed, "It's bollocks really ent it," I said, "All this coaching and training and that!"

The TV director bloke was doing his nut, making cut signs, "Concentrate on the fucking second and third battle," he said.

"I can't they're fucking knackered," the interviewer said on live TV to about six zillion fuckers as the two poor sods lay on their backs on the road too knackered to stand.

"There a chip shop round here?" I asked, "I could use a curry me." and then I saw Suzanne. "Oi let me bird through," I said as she fought her way through the crowd.

"So. ah Miss, ah Suzanne," the bloke asked reading her name badge, because the other fuckers was still too knackered to talk, "What are your plans now."

"Olympics, twenty sixteen," Suzanne declared, "I'm hoping to do the Heptathlon!" she lied.

"And I need a fuck," I said and pulled down her pants in front of a TV audience of about five zillion fuckers as China TV desperately tried to pull the plug.

"Johnno!" Suzanne wailed as I hauled Percy out of me shorts and rammed it firmly up her chuff, "Oh Johnno!" she wailed.

Fucking TV pulled into a close up shot so they couldn't see we was fucking as we bounced around, "Are you looking forward to the medal ceremony later, he asked.

"To be fucking honest," I said, "The fucking national anthem is crap and either you uses a brass band playing it or I'll fuck off home."

"Absolutely," Suzanne's father agreed, as he joined us "I said all along that we should have the Royal Marines play it!"

And then the bloke who came second sat up looked at the times and bloody fainted. Seemed we had totally fucked the World record and all.

"Look Allthwaite old chap," Suzannea's father said suddenly, "If I wangle you a peerage how about you and Suzanne tie the knot eh?"

"Oh John!" said Suzanne, "Will you?"

"Look no offence squire," I said, "I'm BNP me."

"Glad to hear it," he said, "Your example could revolutionise sport, Athletes starting as dustbin men, just imagine Ronaldo starting at five in the morning, chaps working all week in a factory and turning out for Manchester United on a Saturday, no time to take drugs or get drunk, just think of it!"

I did.

It was fucking depressing.

I rather fancied doing sod all and just turning up once every four years for the Olympics.

"Oh John!" Suzanne cried and hugged me and thats when I git a hard on and why two inches of cock was poking out the leg of me shorts when I got interviewed by that lesbian on Sports night.

Honest.