Some human males enjoy fits and bursts of attempting to keep fit, before succumbing to the inevitable beer belly gods. However, the occasional man bloke will overcome the odds and be fit and lean come their 40s.

Others take it a step further. Their running habit becomes an addiction, threatens their marriage, and poses a tremendous existential threat to the community they’re within.

Today, we explore the nature of running men and how their SELFISHNESS poses a bigger threat to polite society than selfies, TikTok, and Millennials COMBINED.

Marathon Men are a Threat to Married Life

Dear agony aunt,

My name is Henrietta. My husband is called Henry. “Henry and Henrietta!” my friends once quipped, “A match made in heaven!” We were the talk of the town. The best looking couple in all of Bolton of Greater Manchester. My beautiful in that kind of “Golly gosh, what a dame!” type of beauty. He handsome in that type of “Golly gosh! With some plastic surgery he’d be up there with Brad Pitt! Pity he won’t be able to afford it…” kind of ways. The level of respect we got for our combined gorgeousness created in me a mindless sense of superiority over everyone around me.

But not anymore…

It began when Henry turned 40. “I need to keep fit, sweet cheeks!” He said to me. “I need to make sure I’m the hottest piece of man arse in town!”

And so he started runs. To begin with, he could only run a mile before collapsing in a sweaty, grotesque heap. But like any addict, he stuck at it and as the weeks turned into months he was running many miles, then marathons, and gradually the smell of BO went from tolerable to coma-inducing. Now he can’t get through a day without running at least 10 miles!

What is wrong with him? Who broke my husband? The house STINKS of BO. Our kids, Henriette Jnr. and Henry Jnr., complain to us all the time, “MOMMY! Why does daddy STINK so hard!?” they whinge. “STOP WHINGING, HENRIETTE JNR. AND HENRY JNR.!” I screamed at them in M&S last week when it was really busy with other customers but I was at the end of my tether. I collapsed in a heap sobbing. An ambulance was called. The ambulance crashed on the way to the supermarket, so I demanded an emergency helicopter be flown out. It arrived an hour later. To be honest, I was feeling better by then but since they’d gone to the trouble in I went on a stretcher and was flown off to hospital. This is where I am now, typing this in intensive care hooked up to drips.

My husband? He’s beside me now, stinking of BO… he’s just got back from his 10 mile run. He refuses to acknowledge his running habit is a problem. REFUSES! AS I LIE HERE HOSPITALISED BECAUSE OF HIS SELFISHNESS! Truly, the folly of man is man himself… that’s my line I just made up.

But I need support here. How do I stop this man from ruining my life?

Yours,

Henrietta

Hi there! Asides from our usual suggestion of hobbling your husband with a sledgehammer (something we’ve been heavily criticised for, so better stop), our suggestion now is to start adding beer into his foods.

Think about it.

Keep making him meals (stews, hot pots, beer battered chicken etc.) with beer added in. This’ll make him bloated and listless, plus he’ll start gaining weight and become lethargic and inactive. Over several months he’ll gain a lot of weight and his running days will be over, instead middle age, balding, and farewell to his chiselled jawline will commence.

Granted, this is technically poisoning him. It’s for his own good, though, and he’ll thank you for it in a decade when he has coronary heart disease.

“Henrietta…” He’ll wheeze at you, “You saved our marriage, but clogged my arteries. You truly are the dame of my dreams.” Then he’ll have another swig of beer, belch, and you can swoon over what a dreamboat he is.