Until last month, the 3 seemingly innocent, meaningless letters, ‘WTM’ meant nothing to me. Nothing. Why would they?

No don’t google it. Wait.

Background: My “free time” is more often than not spent slumped on the sofa, watching TV or playing the PS, stuffing my face with totally unacceptable levels of fat and sugar. NOT, going to the gym <shudder> or participating in some regular team based sport-like activity. Don’t get me wrong, I have complete and utter respect for those that do. I’m just lazy.

When I do leave the cocoon of TV heaven for some much needed socialising it’s generally (always) accompanied with far too many alcoholic beverages, and, inevitably, more fatty food.

There is only one thing i like to do more with my free time. The same as anyone else: Go on holiday!

So, when Rob casually asked me how I fancied going to Las Vegas in November for some W, blah blah (I’d stopped listening, I just heard Vegas and November), I of course said yes. We went a couple of years ago and it was addictively awesome!

When my response was greeted with a “really???” I should have, possibly, in hindsight, started paying attention rather than drifting off into a fantasy land filled with bright lights, casinos, dollar signs, the Strip, hot sun, swimming pools, cocktails (see?)… but I didn’t. Instead i blurted, “er… yeah!” possibly too quickly and as if insulted that he was even questioning my initial answer.  <pause> “It will be tough. Literally.”<giggle>.

Now THIS ladies and gentleman is a prime example of what one would call ‘miscommunication’. Rob spends 99% of his time worrying about work and it’s always his first concern when it comes to going on holiday. We were in the middle of sorting things out in preparation for a week off at Glasto, and he was right, it was tough, but again… Hello? Vegas?!?

“We’ll work something out.” <longer pause>. “Ok, i’m game if you are; let’s do it!” If I’m game? What? He suggested it. And drifting off again…

A few days passed.

Then we were talking over google chat and out and nowhere Rob suddenly announces “We’re going to Vegas!! <obligatory smiley face>”. “OMG. Amazing!!!! Have you booked the flights then? When we going?!!? Eeeeeek!!!” “No, not yet, but i’ve confirmed our places at WTM. Check your email!!”.

Er. What? WT-what? What is going on. Confirmed our places? What?

Naturally, I check my email.

I thought (hoped) the subject line was some kind of sick joke. But no. I opened the email only to have all my fears realised in one, heart-stopping, breath-sapping, stomach-turning, reality check…

WHAT THE FUCK? I mean seriously, what. The. Fuck?

Actual event photo

For those of you that haven’t heard of it, ‘Tough Mudder’ is a brand, if you can call it that, of intense running competitions held throughout the world. They generally consist of a 10-12 mile course (they don’t tell you exactly), littered with obscene obstacles like stupidly high walls, 3 foot mud swamps, being made to crawl through teeny-tiny pipes, ice pits… the works. There’s even one that induces electric shocks. Nice.

I know this because Rob was stupid enough to do one a few years ago.

World’s Toughest Mudder however I was not familiar with per se, other than guessing it was connected to the brand and on the face of it did not sound altogether appealing.

Hey, guess what? I was right. On both counts.

10-12 miles? Pfff! A high wall or two? Double pfff.

WTM is an endurance race that consists of a 5 mile per lap course (wait…) with an obstacle every mile, tougher and harder than any TM event (wait…) with the aim being to do as many laps as you can in 24 hours. Yes. Yes, you read that right. TWENTY FOUR FUCKING HOURS!!

In the (now not so appealing) Vegas desert.

I hate him. I actually hate him. Or wanted to. But couldn’t. How could I? A distant memory of our conversation a few days ago came flooding back.

For the first time ever, he wasn’t talking about work was he. Shit and balls. The pauses, the surprised reaction, the  “[…] tough. Literally <giggle>” comment. Double shit and triple cock sucking balls.

I’ve really stitched myself up this time. Months of painful training ahead followed by the embarrassment of guaranteed failure on the actual day by no doubt collapsing in a wheezing heap about 100 meters from the starting line.

Yes, again, actual event photo

I can’t wait.

In case anyone is interested, the last time I ran any considerable distance (by which i mean not running for the last train, or to the bar for last orders. That was a joke.) was at school. SCHOOL!!! I was 16.

This is going to kill me.