"They call it a run club... but none of you soft, self-obsessed cunts actually run."

"You jog twenty feet, take a fuckin’ selfie, then stand around pantin’ like you stormed Normandy. You didn’t. You left your car running."

"Then you lot walk into a bar — all smug — and say, ‘Water me bro.’
You disrespect the bar. You disrespect the barman.
You disrespect your fuckin’ self, ordering tap water like it's some power move."

"You call it community? It's a cult of weak little posers — same hats, same captions, same dead fuckin’ eyes beggin’ for likes."

"You don’t train. You don’t sweat. You don’t fight. You perform."

"And the running? Half of you couldn’t outrun a blind dog with a limp."

"So here’s my advice: take your filtered bullshit, your influencer cardio, and your fuckin’ water requests… and stay the fuck out of my pub."

"Be fuckin’ nice. Or don’t. Just know — I bury louder men than you… without sayin’ a word."

*"They call it a run club.
But it’s not.
It’s a fuckin’ costume party with overpriced trainers and delusions of discipline.

You people jog twenty steps, tops — then stop, pull out your little phones, and pose like you’ve been through war.
You haven’t. You’ve been through traffic.
You're not tired. You’re just desperate… for someone to notice you.

Then you flood into a bar, high-fiving each other like a bunch of drunk toddlers.
And what do you order?
‘Water me bro.’
WATER?!
You useless, soft, influencer-worshipping fucks…
You walk into a bar — a sacred place — and you order water like you're some precious little cactus?

You insult the bar. You insult the barman. And you insult every single person who’s ever bled, puked, or fought for something real.

You call it community — but it’s a fuckin’ cult.
Same hats. Same captions. Same plastic fucking smiles.
You’re not athletes. You’re sheep.
You chase likes like rats chasing cheese in a maze of mediocrity.

And the running? Half of you couldn’t outrun my Aunt Polly in heels — and she’s dead.
You’ve never run from danger. Never run from consequence.
I have.
I’ve run from guns, coppers, and fucking bodies in the street.
You run from sweat.

So let me be clear:
You and your ‘Water me bro’ horseshit — stay the fuck out of my pub.
Stay the fuck out of my way.
Because next time, I won't just laugh…
I’ll remind you what fear tastes like.

Be fuckin’ nice.
Or don’t.
But if you come near me with a phone, a hashtag, or a glass of water…
I will bury you with your own On Clouds."*

*"They call it a run club.
But it’s not.
It’s a fuckin’ costume party with overpriced trainers and delusions of discipline.

You people jog twenty steps, tops — then stop, pull out your little phones, and pose like you’ve been through war.
You haven’t. You’ve been through traffic.
You're not tired. You’re just desperate… for someone to notice you.

Then you flood into a bar, high-fiving each other like a bunch of drunk toddlers.
And what do you order?
‘Water me, bro.’
WATER?!
You useless, soft, influencer-worshipping fucks…
You walk into a bar — a sacred place — and you order water like you're some precious little cactus?

You insult the bar. You insult the barman. And you insult every single person who’s ever bled, puked, or fought for something real.

You call it community — but it’s a fuckin’ cult.
Same hats. Same captions. Same plastic fucking smiles.
You’re not athletes. You’re sheep.
You chase likes like rats chasing cheese in a maze of mediocrity.

And the running? Half of you couldn’t outrun my Aunt Polly in heels — and she’s dead.
You’ve never run from danger. Never run from consequence.
I have.
I’ve run from guns, coppers, and fucking bodies in the street.
You run from sweat.

So let me be clear:
You and your ‘Water me, bro’ horseshit — stay the fuck out of my pub.
Stay the fuck out of my way.
Because next time, I won't just laugh…
I’ll remind you what fear tastes like.

Be fuckin’ nice.
Or don’t.
But if you come near me with a phone, a hashtag, or a glass of water…
I will bury you with your own On Clouds."*

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peaky Tommy

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