I do a race report for my sponsors, as some sort of payback I do a report. It's a bit windy, so a free pint to the first person answering text related questions at Llanfair2.

"Cripes, that hurt!

I ran the best race I could have, and finished in the personal best time of 2 hours 7 minutes and 30 seconds.

The minutiae. I did learn a few lessons last time, the principal one being that one can't replace a training programme with a couple of cans of Red Bull. The net result was having a body that run off the top of the legs, and ending up in the latrines at the six mile mark due to the extreme diuretic qualities of that otherwise excellent product. The other was to either wear a bra or tape cotton wool over the chesticles. I opted for the latter, but I rather foolishly used Sellotape as fixative, which lost its adherent qualities when I got into a lather. So, yet again, I ended up with strangely placed stigmata.

So, I approached the start line eminently well prepared by comparison, and strode confidently towards the densely packed pens of runners. I kept looking for a gap to climb the crowd barriers, but it wasn't until the expected finishing time of 1 hour 45 mins that there was any room. Why then, was I held up by pantomime cows and Father Christmas' that have probably yet to complete the course? All power to them, and the huge amount they raise for charity, but couldn't they start at the back, instead of the front? I reckon it cost me two to three minutes navigating round lumbering ranks of overweight publicans, tottering five abreast, and the rhythm is fast/slow for over seven to eight miles. Despite being a couple of hundred yards from the start line, the clock read 8 minutes and 40 seconds had elapsed by the time I crossed.

I didn't see any celebs, but the crowd were cheering for 'Charlie'(who apparently is the longest surviving member of a hospital drama on the television) at one point. I also overtook Frank Bruno's double, who probably wasn't the man due to lack of hangers on, make up artiste and 'security'. I thought he'd deck me if I stared.

My plan was simple. Get behind a calypigian (possessive of beautiful buttocks, I'm told) lady, and try and keep up. (I tried it in Italy once, but it turned out to be a bloke) Wouldn't you know it, every time I had one lined up, some polecat in trainers would jump into the gap. After a dozen miles, the atmosphere was getting a bit gamey.

The plus of starting so far back is the psychological advantage of overtaking so many people. The minus, apart from the traffic problems, is that on the sections of course where one can see maybe a mile ahead, I saw tens of thousands of runners ahead of me. Going into the last mile, agonising as it was, I was still slowed by folk who had kicked off maybe 7 or eight minutes ahead of me, and were more weary, but determined not to walk . When I crossed the line, there were literally hundreds of finishers crowding into the funnels, but with start times that probably varied by up to twenty minutes.

I crossed the line with the clock reading 2 hours 16 minutes and 10 seconds. So, deducting the 8 minutes and 40 seconds, that gives an elapsed time of 2 hours, 7 minutes and 30 seconds. I can't deduct any notional injury time, because what I lost in traffic was probably compensated for by running in competition, after the lonely miles of solo training. It's just that I expected the field to have thinned out, only to find out my personal best is shared by the largest sector of the field.

Mrs. Dunn and the children had set up base camp in the Sundancer pub, down on the beach in South Shields, close to the finishing line, and I managed to get to the bar and get a couple of rounds in before half the 47,000 strong field descended. It was so packed I didn't see either of the two people I had intended to raft up with.

One thought buoyed me significantly though, as I did mental arithmetic to while away the miles. I was earning (hopefully!) about 10 pence every time my foot hit the deck, for all 23,500 footfalls, with Mr Cargill doubling it to twenty. So, however modest your contribution, I greatly appreciate it, and I will confirm the amount when the rubber band is retaining all the cheques.

One final thought. I'm told that a new mother swears 'never again' in the delivery room, but is of the opposite opinion when back on the ward. Change that to finishing line and pub, and you'll guess I'm planning next years race already, and Plan A is to stand in front of the Kenyans at the start!"

Some of my backers are Plymouth Brethren, so I had to tone it down a bit.

Skipjack