I should have gone for a run tonight, but I failed, like I do every single time.

I’m sat here now, watching Netflix with a beer and feeling that creeping guilt cloak me like a dirty dressing gown.

It’s okay, I’ll go tomorrow.

I’m forty now and I know I need to look after myself, I’ve noticed that recently my body has started working against me, sabotaging itself to try and slow me down. I put on weight just by saying “Greggs”, I pulled a muscle in my back when I sneezed and my bladder is weaker than the plot of Hollyoaks.

This coupled with my frankly uncontrollable eyebrow and ear hair, means that some mornings I often wake up looking like I’m my own Grandad.

Having a child under the age of four means you have no choice but to look after yourself, they run you ragged. If we ever go to a soft play centre, I have to go in with her, there is no Coffee and a catch up for me. It’s two brutal hours on my hands and knees, cargo nets cutting into my feet and the humiliation of holding up a queue of impatient toddlers as I try to squeeze my beer gut through a multi-coloured mangle.

I am a comedian, which means I work late nights and at 2am there are no healthy options. In the services the Waitrose shutters are down, Costa has run out of salads and the only thing on offer is food so unhealthy, that as you’re eating it you can literally hear your heart begging you to stop. If the bag it came in has gone translucent due to the amount of grease, you can only imagine what it is doing to your insides.

One of the staff at the Leicester Forest Services Burger King called me by my name the other day, if that’s not a worrying sign then I don’t know what is.

Yes, I could take a salad with me, some freshly prepared pasta perhaps. The only problem is it tends to lose that freshness when it’s been rattling around under the seat of my Kia Sportswagon for four hours.

“Take a Coolbox Scott!” I hear you say, No, I’m going to work not on a scouting weekend.

I need to run because I was overweight before, when I was at university. Apparently, even if you’ve lost the weight, your body still retains those fat cells. They are just waiting to come out of retirement, like a boxer making a comeback, they are like that over bearing Grandma, forcing you to have that second helping of trifle before she’ll let you leave.

Running has been the only thing that has worked. I like swimming, but not in a cocktail of diluted urine and old plasters. The gym intimidates me. The first time I went I saw a man bench pressing, making noises like he was about to give birth and his mate straddling his head with his genitals almost brushing his face, shouting encouragement.

Once I had the ridiculous notion that I could work out at home, in my shed, I even bought some dumbbells to use. The only time I’ve lifted them since, was to move them out of the way to get to the BBQ.

I’ve tried spinning, which just seemed to be an hour of frantic pedalling on an exercise bike to a 90’s trance record, whilst being yelled at by a man who was dismissed from the army for being “a bit too aggressive”

Much as I despise it, running is the easiest exercise to fit around my chaotic lifestyle. A pair of trainers and a basic sense of direction is all you need.

The running community is quite bizarre though. They love to tell you how far they run and how often. “I only did three miles today” “right?” “Yeah, need to do a long one at the weekend really” “Brilliant, thanks for that mate” “Yeah, I’m going to go and run down near the canal” “Wow, that’s great, is there any way one could follow this exciting venture?” “there is yes, I’ll put it all on Facebook!” “ah, of course you will.”

It’s all about the technology now. A runner these days is like a terminator in trainers. There is “Map my run” Fitbit statistics, Couch to 5K. These are all designed to help you to get fit and more importantly make you feel superior to your lazy friends.

Historically running was seen as a punishment, at school everyone lived in fear of that cross-country run. Endless laps of a dog dirt riddled field whilst the teacher followed you round, heckling you for being fat, skinny, tiny, tall, ginger or southern.

The fashion in running has changed too. Go and chat to some older runners. They’ll tell you stories of how they did the London Marathon in less than three hours with nothing but a flask of Bovril and a pair of Dunlop Greenflash.

Now runners have glow in the dark tops, flashing LED headbands, trainers with Ipods in them, when they come towards you, they are lit up like a couple of wheezing gritters.

Some of the running gear that you can buy for the amateur runner is ridiculous. Compression socks are a thing now. They are tight-fitting knee-high socks that are designed to stimulate blood flow to the major organs to improve performance by 2-5%. A vital advantage, I think you’ll agree, when you are toddling round the estate past the chippy on a Friday night.

I am always a victim of the dreaded runners’ trots when I go for a run.

It’s hardly surprising that this happens really. Your body is under stress, your internal organs are having a pillow fight, it’s no wonder that the coffee and muffin you had for breakfast is fast tracked through your colon quicker than an Etonian at an investment bank.

It is a fact that Colon cancer is less amongst runners, mainly because you are giving yourself an enema every time you go out.

I make sure my route always takes me past a pub, that way if I am caught short, I can always nip in. It’s always a bit awkward, going in a pub just to poo. I try and pretend that I’m just out for a casual drink. Waddling through the mass of drinkers, dressed head to toe in bright yellow Lycra, as if it’s completely normal, like I’ve planned it all “Yep see you down the Red Lion at seven John, I’ll just put my tights on pal, myself and my chafed nipples can’t wait to see you, I’ll have a pint of Lucozade!”

I just wish I loved running; it would be so much easier. I’ve realised that my thought process when I am thinking about going for a run is always the same.

I wake up, my alarm goes off, its 7am.

“Right, get your trainers on and get this run out of the way”

“I’m too tired, I need sleep, that’s just as important, I’ll go later, I’ll go at lunchtime”

Its 12.30pm, my wife and daughter are tucking into their sandwiches, I’m starving.

“What if I don’t eat today? what if I just put that kit on and wander round the house?”

“Maybe I can trick my body into thinking it’s been for one?”

“No, I can’t run now anyway, I’m too hungry, I’ll go in the afternoon, before the school run”

2pm:

“I can’t go now what if that parcel comes that I’m waiting for? I’ll go tonight, before dinner”

6pm:

My wife comes in with fish and chips,

“Do you want any? Or are you going for that run?”

“No, I’ll go when the kids are in bed”

“Pass me the curry sauce”

9pm:

“Right, get your trainers on, this is ridiculous”

“It’s started raining now, I’ll go in the morning, I’ll set the alarm for 5am, I’ll have a raw egg like Rocky, I’ll do ten miles, I’ll not stop until I vomit!”

The following day, my alarm sounds, its 5 am. I get up, put my running gear on, get out of the house, I make it halfway down the street, it’s happening, I’m actually out for a run!!!

“Oh god, I think I need a poo….”