Affectionate love letters sent from Sunday league football’s shit-smeared post-box…
As I have previously revealed, I am a man that can run quickly. I certainly can transport myself in a blur of motion, fingers arcing through the cold like futuristic time blades, that’s what they say. I have frequently drawn comment from stunned onlookers, scarcely able to believe the effortless transit of my aerodynamic flesh.
It is not unknown for dazzled bystanders to propose marriage upon witnessing such a spectacle, but more frequently, I am met with the stock quip “Run, Forrest, Run!” Thinly-veiled reminders of Lieutenant Dan’s green-screened leg stumps do nothing to deter me from my single-minded devotion to steely-hinded motion. However, the Forrest Gump joke has become a cliche so tired that you suspect it may have M.E. In my ongoing quest to improve the game (progress thus far: minimal), I hereby suggest a number of proposed alternatives. Next time you see someone running quickly at a football match at any level, bellow one of these things at them continuously, and refuse to stop until it has punctured the bubble of public consciousness.
“God speed, young man!”
“Swift movement from A to B, there!”
“It would appear that you have suffered a delay of sorts. Best of luck!”
“May I race you, sir?”
“You remind me of a younger me!”
“Pump those calves!”
“You nailed your pre-match meal, son!”
“I won’t bring attention to this!”
“I must cloak you in a foil blanket!”
“I rate your rapid transition highly!”
“Your fluid limbs must be a kinesiologist’s dream!”
“You must be full of glucose!”