David Flatman Column: Get set for the re-make of ‘Run, FatBoy, Run’

This column appears in the current issue of Sport magazine.

A small group of blokes and women who call themselves my friends

have spent rather a lot of time over the past few days sending me clips of triathletes and runners defecating as they approach the finish line.

Some are top-class athletes, some civilians who have bitten off more than they can chew, but all provide exceedingly good value - assuming lunchtime has been and gone.

The reason they are sending me these is because I’ve been stitched up.

As I have mentioned approximately twice on this page, my testimonial year is coming to a close, and I am looking to finish as strongly as possible in fundraising terms. As I stood on a temporary stage, microphone in hand in front of about 500 paying guests, I was asked to talk about my chosen charities. As my hands began to shake and my eyes watered up a little, the MC saw weakness and pounced.

“You really care about these kids, don’t you, Flats?” he said, knowing what my reply would be. “It seems like you’d do anything to help them.” Fifteen seconds later, I was signed up to run a half-marathon in their honour.

Now, despite my enviably lithe appearance, I am not a natural runner. In fact, I am a horrible, horrible athlete.

I am 6ft tall, I weigh more than 20 stone, I am asthmatic and all of my joints are knackered. On Monday, I went for a 6am sharpener, and I truly thought I might perish.

My back and, somehow, my neck were screaming. And I almost crashed my car on the way to work when one of my abdominals cramped at the wheel. I take heart from realising there’s still one in there.

So I will run the Bath Half in March, and I will try to raise as much as I can for the Down’s Syndrome Association and the Burned Children’s Club, because they are totally bloody wonderful. What I won’t do is promise any sort of performance. If I finish the thing, I will be both astonished and bleeding, potentially from both inner thigh and nipple (bacon sarnie, anyone?).

Charity appeals are a nuisance at this time of year, so why not regard this as an opportunity to ensure a gobby, fat, lazy know-it-all crashes into the pain barrier at approximately three miles per hour.

Think about the kids, think about how a few quid could help them out, and think about my poor nipples. If you can spare a tenner, we’ll all be grateful. Thank you, Mo Flatman.