James Faudemer is Fucked in the Head

I’m like Wolverine. I’ve been telling everybody that. Hey kids! Come here, check this out. *rolls up sleeve* Ta da! I’m like Wolverine, eh? From X-Men!

It’s because last Sunday I mashed up my arm real good but by yesterday all the cuts had fucking GONE. Super healing powers. Just like Wolverine. I continue to impress myself. Even after all these years I do something that just makes me go WOW! This week it was my arm healing.

Ran a lot too, this week. More than ever, probably. Definitely more than ever. Felt okay. A bit tired but, yeah, okay. Did 22miles on Tuesday. And 20 on Thursday. And other miles on other days. Because Gilmour was in France I arranged to go running with James on Saturday. James and Gilmour do an enjoyable blast along front on Saturdays. It’s nice. A nice day off from hard proper running. 30 minutes? What’s that? Fuck all. Nothing. Less than nothing. But they take it seriously so it’s fun to do. Gilmour was away so I arranged to meet just James. It was either that or the Parkrun, you know?

9am we were to meet at West Park. Got up on Saturday and I’ve a text saying 9:30. Fucking prick. You know? Fucking me around already as soon as I wake up. Okay. I took the dog for a walk and went to West Park. Is James there? Is he fuck. I wait 15 minutes. Does he show up? Does he fuck. So I did 10k on my own. I was sorta glad James wasn’t there, and not just because he’s faster than me, though that was my major cause of gladness. I was also glad he didn’t show up because James Faudemer is fucked in the head.

James’ dad is a famous swimmer. I can only assume all that swimming starved his sperm of oxygen leading to James being how he is. Fucked. He just launches into anecdotes even if somebody is talking. When he runs he keeps turning around and looking at you, like a ventriloquists dummy and for such a good runner he sure can’t hold a constant pace. Speeding up and slowing down all over the place.

So I did 10k on my own. Did the last bit pretty quick and startled a South African. At home I saw my phone. James had texted. He was telling me he couldn’t even make it for 9:30. Thanks for that! Tell me something I don’t know!

By Saturday lunchtime I’d already run more than 110km for the week so I didn’t have to worry about doing a long run on the Sunday. Last couple of weeks I’ve been doing Sunday runs with Tom who’s a great guy. He’s won loads of races but isn’t a prick about it like some people I could – but won’t – mention. People like Gilmour and James.

James is running 27km on Sunday. Tom’s also doing it and so I decide to too.  Ha! Tutu! James wants to do it at 4:10/km for some reason. They both turn up and on time, which is something, and I chose the route because I’m great with routes and then we’re off.

It’s immediately apparent James doesn’t want to run at 4:10/km. It seems he was simply giving it all that when he said he wanted to run at 4:10. Instead of running he’s talking. I was trying to block it out because he was talking nonsense. He was talking about where he’s been the previous evening. Something about a party where they all put on hats. All different hats and danced? And threw shoes as far as they could and then he fell asleep in a car and woke up terrified and the most fucked up thing was he was sober! Like I said, I couldn’t comprehend what I was hearing but every time I tried to run faster, to shut him up, he’d harrupmh and make a comment. Like he’d call me Serge (surge). He clearly didn’t want to run at 4:10/km at all.

When James wasn’t telling mad anecdotes he was complaining about being thirsty. This was, like, after 1.2km he was dying of thirst. He’s not all there. And then Tom needed a poo. I’ve got Tom needing a poo, James crying about being thirsty and it was just like being out with my kids! I only fucking run to get away from my kids, you know? Nightmare.

We found a toilet for Tom but we didn’t get to a cafe for James until we’d run about 12 miles. Along the Five Mile Road. The path was really narrow but James and Tom seemed to be struggling with how to deal with it. They were running side by side so neither of them were actually on the path. James was doing his normal erratic pace and looking around shit and I nearly crashed into him. He then said I was running too close to him and I remembered that documentary I’d recorded.

We were nearly back at the start by now. It wasn’t worth stopping but he had to stop. James had to stop. He was a little thirsty baby. So we stopped. At Le Braye Cafe.

I’ve said I’m like Wolverine. And I am. A more handsome and lithe version of Wolverine, but where my cuts have all magically healed I’m pretty sure I’ve totally fucked my ribs up, BIG TIME.

Wolverine had to get his bones turned into metal, so he’s not so great. He shouldn’t compare himself to me. I didn’t have that option. It’s when I start running my ribs really hurt. At the place on my chest where I fell onto my arm.  It’s okay when I get going but the stop-start nature of the run was beginning to take it’s toll. James didn’t have enough money to buy a drink so he drunk out of a dog’s bowl. One they have for customer’s dogs. Of course neither Tom nor I did the same. Because we’re normal humans.

As we waited for James to finish drinking the dirty water I asked Tom if he’d seen the Zola Budd documentary that was shown on Sky Atlantic this week just gone. I’d recorded it because I have Sky+ and a 55 inch 4K capable smart TV.


“Zola Budd.”

“Who’s that?”

“Zola Budd and Mary Decker?” Tom’s face was contorted in confusion as if I was just saying random words. “Zola Budd? No shoes?”


James had drunk all the dog’s water so I told him that Tom had never heard of Zola Budd if he could even believe that.

“Who?” said James.

“You’re fucking with me?” They weren’t. I explained who they were and what had transpired between them. Zola Budd and Mary Decker.

“And they had TV back then?”

It was then I realised I’m old. Really old. And starting running again I felt it. Rib was hurting a lot. I was thirsty as fuck and that fucking prick James – now full of diphtheria  and drool riddled water – decided to run the last two miles as fast as he could. Why? Fuck knows, like I said, he’s fucked in the head. Tom waited for me because Tom’s great and realises Sunday group runs aren’t races. We watched James disappear into the distance. “The fuck is that dick doing?”

“I don’t know,” replied Tom. He wasn’t wrong there. We got back to the car park and James was there doing a touchdown dance.

“Nice one, James. That last bit was very impressive,” I told him, sarcastically.

“Yes it was. I won, didn’t I. I’m just like Zoltan Blood.”

“Zola Budd.”

“Yeah, him.” James took his shoes off and possibly reenacting a scene from his previous day’s party he launched them across the car park. “Beat that, Grandad!” said James. I didn’t because my sore rib.

That evening I met an acquaintance in the Co-op while I was buying my cod liver oil and Horlicks.

“Saw you out with you kids this morning!” he said, brightly enough.

“Those aren’t my kids!” I protested! “They’re a fucking pair of bell-ends! Well, the younger one is.”

“Joseph and Jacob aren’t yo-“

“Oh, those two? Yeah, they’re mine.”

At home I get a text from Gilmour. He’s back in Jersey. Wants to know if I want to go for a run there and then. It’s nearly dark and I’m watching Robot Wars so I tell him I can’t.

Monday to Monday

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