The virtually non-London, virtual London Marathon, which now enables runners to complete their race in isolation around their local area, has been revealed as the latest figures-massaging gasp of a government mired in cack-handed confusion.
The miles pounded by every hatchet-faced club-runner, virtue-signalling MILF, and ominously weaving rhinoceros will be totalled, ’rounded up’ by barely a few million, and loudly trumpeted by officials. This is all part of a vain attempt to prove Boris’s national ‘get-fit you obese bastards’ plan hasn’t collapsed on its arse before the first checkpoint.
Runners will be required to take a COVID test every five miles. Ostensibly, this is to prevent the spread of the disease, but in reality, Matt Hancock can claim that an almost-significant number of tests of any kind have been completed.
Canny competitors are turning the event to their advantage, many via the traditionally tiresome costumes used to whip up cheering, donations, and sudden cardiac arrests.
One impressive Marie Antoinette ensemble contained an extended family wedding party of sixty guests, priest, and a ten-piece samba band. Sadly, when Grandma suffered a stroke on the final training run, she had to be jettisoned outside Wadebridge Poundland.
One enthusiastic competitor, wishing only to be identified as ‘Stanley’, said; “This is all jolly fun. I’m planning to go peasant shooting, visit my club in Fitzrovia for a quick back, sack and crack, and pop over to Bodrum for a paddle, all under the guise of this excellent national egg-and-spoon dash. Fwah fwah!”