by David Cook
All I bloody see on Facebook these days are photos of people in jogging bottoms looking sweaty, talking about beating their best times in some bloody sponsored run or getting up at daft o’clock for a five mile jog before breakfast. They’re just trying to make the rest of us feel guilty because we’d rather lie in bed until the middle of the morning and then watch Jeremy Kyle on the sofa in our pyjamas.
‘We asked, “Have you ever kissed another woman since you married Janet?” You said, no.’ He’s lying, Jeremy, we all know it. That’s what men do.
There’s Mark, on top of some hill somewhere. Buy some longer shorts, Mark, you’re leaving nothing to the imagination. Lots of likes on that picture. No wonder! And there’s Katie. ‘All ready for this weekend’s marathon!’ Eat some bloody cakes, love, if the wind gets up you’ll blow away. They should call it Racebook instead, it’d be more accurate.
‘We asked, “Have you ever had sexual contact with another woman since you married Janet?” You said, no.’ Look at him! Eyes like a weasel. He’s not to be trusted.
Oh, and there she is. The Gibbon. Can’t go more than a day or two without seeing her in her posh trainers. I call her the Gibbon ‘cos of her hairy arms and massive teeth. ‘Fifteen miles round the Lake District – knackered, but great fun!’ Whatever. I could do that. If I wanted to, I could. Look at her there, with her bloody toothpaste ad smile, thinks she’s so great because she’s jogged around a bloody puddle. They gave her a medal for that one. Big whoop. And there she is with Steve. Course he’d be there. He’s got a medal too. Arms round each other. You’d think they’d won the Olympics or something, not trooped around some lake with the village running club.
I could do that. I would’ve done that. ‘Why don’t you join the running club with me, Donna? Maybe Steve can come too. We can run as a three.’ And there’s me, twat that I am, going, ‘that’s a good idea, Sal, we could do with getting fit, couldn’t we, Steve?’ and I thought he was a bit enthusiastic for a man who could hardly walk to the chip shop without hyperventilating, but I didn’t see it, I didn’t bloody see it. Next thing I know they’re going for runs alone while I’m on my shift, and he’s all, ‘seriously, you’ve got nothing to worry about babe’, and then when we did all go together they’d race off ahead and when they finally let me catch up they’d go, ‘oh, you’re doing really well’, but they’d roll their eyes while they said it. And before I knew it, he’d pissed off to shack up with her, leaving me on my tod with only Facebook for company. But there’s no escape from them there. Half my friends are friends with her and it ends up with both the Gibbon and him turning up in loads of their photos, rubbing my nose in it. They go, ‘oh, babe, I’m so sorry, I can’t believe what they did’, but when it comes down to it, to they unfriend her? Do they hell.
“The lie detector says…”
‘Doing fifteen miles round the Brecon Beacons next week! So excited!’ Your arse is still fat though, love. All that running hasn’t changed that, has it? I bet it’s covered in hair as well, like your arms.
“…you’re telling the truth!”
Oh. Got it wrong again. I always do. Terrible judge of character, me. I always used to say that to Steve when we watched this together.
I was right about that, at least.
David Cook’s stories have been published in a few places, online and in print, and he’s a Pushcart Prize nominee.