Misery loves company. Which is precisely why I plumped for Bill Bryson's Lost Continent. Bill makes everything alright. I love Bill. His dulcet tones take me to a happy place and I seek and find solace in the man's purple prose and delightful destination descriptions. Bill is also incredibly funny. He wrote this:
“What a joy walking is. All the cares of life, all the hopeless, inept fuckwits that God has strewn along the Bill Bryson Highway of Life suddenly seem far away and harmless, and the world becomes tranquil and welcoming and good.”
Admittedly however, at the 2km stage of my run Bill has become a front running candidate in a 'most abhorred person to ever extensively travel the western hemisphere' competition. Bill, I'm afraid, was really starting to fuck me off.
I'm beginning to suffer here, William, and yet you continue to crack wise without relent in my ear holes. Enough's enough. And with that I fumbled in my short pocket and unearthed a sweaty iPhone. Thumb-print recognition didn't work so I had to key in the pass code while grunting indignantly at a dog walker who neglected shackling his hound which in turn was almost on the receiving end of inadvertent punt in the face. Your fault William, your FUCKING FAULT.
Of course there's the option to pad out the 10k to a high-energy house beat but the wailing banshees who invariably scream over the track tend to put me off my stride and I'll end up once again fumbling for the iPhone and pitching the fucking thing into the river.
No, for now misery will have to hack this in solitude.
Yes, from here on in I shall huff and I shall puff and I shall blow my fucking sphincter inside out.
Happy puffing y'all
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