This week I've completed the 10K in a dream time of 48 minutes 34 seconds.

I'm celebrating with a glass of champagne and my wife and family are pouring the Moet over my head like the final scene from Chariots of Fire.

I feel like a hero. This is the life. Six miles - about one hour on the road - and I've got hero status. Kenny Daglish, the legendary Liverpool striker and former Blackburn Rovers manager, is first to embrace me. Graeme Souness jumps on my back. Ian Rush gives me a playful jab on the chin. Paul Gascoigne offers me a beer.

The only problem is the dream time of 48 minutes 34 seconds actually turns out to be ... a dream.

I'm dreaming of running! I'm dreaming of running with celebrities. Even Gazza is running with me, it's that unrealistic and perhaps ... sick.

The most disturbing thing for me is that jogging is invading my sub-conscious. My dreamworld used to be a land when I could fly at will like Peter Pan, where Cameron Diaz (ahem, my wife Sharon) fed me with grapes, and Wayne Rooney scored an own goal to hand Liverpool the Premier League title.

Now I'm dreaming of running ... and that's not good by anyone's standards.

Writing this blog has made me feel guilty. I feel guilty that I've been to London this week and instead of clocking up the miles on Tower Bridge, I'd rather have a few beers and a bottle of wine in Notting Hill. Then again, I don't feel that guilty.

What's wrong with having a few beers on Portobello Road?

It's Wednesday, and I'm four days into my holidays.

I'm determined to go for a run, so I put on my dodgy England shorts and away I go, IPod in full shuffle mode.

It's about half a mile to the seafront at Portsmouth and I jog there as the rain starts to pour. I'm on the prom (a seaside postcode scene in the summer, and a suicide letter in the winter) and as I run into the 70mph wind, the rain batters me.

Yes batters me.

What am I doing?

Batters me!

I'm running into the wind, the rain, and I can't breathe. Literally, cannot breathe! The wind is holding me up, and I gasp as the waves lash over the seafront and crashes onto the prom.

The waves hit my legs but I'm not bothered. I just can't breathe! After a two mile run I'm heading back home, soaked to the skin, and the worst thing of all: the iPod shuffle game threw up Dolly Parton, Shirley Bassey and Kylie Minogue.

Note to self: Have a word with yourself.

I feel like Perseus in Clash of the Titans, when Zeus looks down on the Greek World and takes the Mick. I've ran on the seafront with the wind and rain assaulting me. Exhilirating. Amazing. At one with nature.

Choose none of the above.

Running is still rubbish.