Lockdown London: Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide

I DON’T want to sound like a broken record, but we’ve got to do something about the joggers.

I’m not among those who are now petitioning that they should be interned without trial. I wouldn’t even fine them. I propose instead that they should be sent on compulsory spatial awareness courses. What part of ‘six feet’ don’t they understand?

Since I complained that joggers had replaced seagulls as the new feral menace in lockdown London, some have suggested I am confusing joggers with runners. I fear I have yet to appreciate the subtle distinction.

An example. I turned round for a second the other day as a white van driver managed, in an otherwise deserted lockdowned street, to crash into the kerb. Silly him and silly me. Before either of us had a chance to recover, Miss Lycra zoomed round the corner and right up my arse. Self-distancing it wasn’t.

Now, was she a jogger or a runner? Understandably, she was in too much of a hurry to either explain or apologise.

If you’re a London stroller, even in normal times, you get used to these pests. You’ll be ambling down the river path, enjoying a fag or looking forward to a rewarding pint at the end of your jaunt, and suddenly behind you there’s an aggressive, crowlike screech of “ ‘scuse me, ‘scuse me!” as one – or worse, a murder of them – elbows past.

I mean, seriously…just because you have go-faster Nike stripes on your plimsolls doesn’t give you right of way.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I would die in a ditch for anyone’s right to wheeze pathogens into my face as they head out for their half-hour of mandated exercise. Social-distancing is a recommendation, not a diktat.

That said, it’s not all about you, guys! Give the rest of us a bit of space. I know the iPhone app says ‘straight ahead’ but taking a detour to skirt walkers is unlikely to dent your Olympic prospects.

I could do a whole spiel about the selfish few versus the self-sacrificing many. But joggers/runners are people too.

Forgive me, however, if I speculate that some of these power exercisers – exiles from their usual fetid gyms – might also be part of that self-righteous cohort who usually love telling the rest of us what to do.

“No meat, less booze, put out that cigarette!” they like to tell us. They’re probably right, but no one likes being lectured to.

So, in our defence, I’d just like to suggest: “Walk, don’t run.”