An article I definitely didn't write.

“I have a competition in me. I want no one else to succeed. I hate most people.” Strong words. The words of a sociopathic, psychopathic, whatever-opathic (though not necessarily homeopathic I suppose), semi-fictional turn-of-the-century oil man. Bloke off of There Will Be Blood, yeah? But really, it’s what we all think, right? Right? (Note to self: stop revealing inner neuroses through the medium of a blog.)

OK, maybe the last bit is a little, you know, SERIAL KILLER… like one day “I hate most people”, next day “I want to drill into most people’s skulls, smear brain-goo on my face and pretend I’m an antelope” (dammit, I thought I told myself to stop revealing them neuroses…), but the first bit – “I want no one else to succeed” – is basically the ethos behind all forms of sport, right? Play to win and all that jazz?

This competitive urge can turn a sane and reasonable person into an idiot sprinting blindfolded past a bemused family. I’ll explain. The competition that is awakened in the athlete (not myself, you understand) doesn’t just mean beating other people. It’s inanimate objects too. Or, you know, it could be, theoretically, because I’m definitely not writing from personal experience here. Oh no. So an anonymous athlete could be jogging along, listening to his/her iPod (other mp3 players are available), and perhaps he or she might happen to listen to ‘Smokers outside the Hospital Doors’ by Editors. The lyrics to which go “Pull the blindfold down so your eyes can’t see / Now run as fast as you can through this field of trees”.

The athlete might at the time be traversing an area that could be described in such a manner, and he or she might happen to have a sweatband which could conveniently double as a blindfold. The athlete might therefore think something like “Oh, you’re challenging me, aren’t you Mr. Lead-Singer-off-of-Editors? You don’t think I’ll do it, do you? Well think again, bitch.” And with that, the athlete (not me, remember…) might indeed pull the blindfold down and run as fast as he or she can. Turning the corner, he might glimpse through the slightly translucent blindfold-sweatband-hybrid a family in the distance, and decide that if he slows down, as he kind of needs to, or even removes the sweatband, as he really should do, he will be seen to have surrendered. So I carry on sprinting, and, some minutes later, when the family are safely past the corner, collapse in mental and physical agony and ashamedly take off my sweatband Oh…

ANONYMOUS

This article originally appeared in The Cambridge Sanctuary, Issue 2.
Except the word "blog" at the end of the first paragraph was "newspaper".

mp3: Editors - Smokers Outside The Hospital Doors
(Taken from An End Has A Start)