Every April, while most sensible Londoners are still nursing hangovers from the previous weekend or pretending to enjoy a flat white in the rain, 50,000 people willingly line up in Blackheath and Greenwich to run the equivalent distance of London to Brighton. On foot. For fun. Welcome to the TCS London Marathon — the world’s largest annual fancy-dress party that just happens to involve cardiovascular exercise.
The serious runners — the sub-2:20 Kenyans, the club athletes chasing Olympic qualifiers — get all the headlines. But the real soul of the London Marathon belongs to the people who treat 26.2 miles like the ultimate playground. These are the heroes who prove that suffering and silliness are not mutually exclusive.
Costume Chaos: The Fashion Victims
Where else can you see a rhinoceros overtake a telephone box, only to be passed by a human-sized pint of Guinness? The Guinness World Records team has a permanent tent at the finish because London is basically Comic-Con with shin splints. Fastest marathon dressed as a toilet? Done (2:57:14). Fastest as a dinosaur? Smashed (2:36:28). Fastest carrying a household appliance? A man once ran it lugging a 100-pound tumble dryer because, well, why not?
The rhino suit deserves its own paragraph. Invented by a mad genius named Tom Harrison, it weighs 50 pounds, has zero ventilation, and turns the wearer into a mobile sauna. Every year dozens of people squeeze into one, promising themselves “it’ll be funny.” By mile 15 they’re hallucinating conversations with actual rhinos. Yet they keep coming back. There’s now an unofficial “Rhino Graveyard” at mile 20 where collapsed beasts lie on the curb, horns drooping, accepting Lucozade from strangers like defeated medieval knights.
The Boozy Aid Stations
Official water stations are for amateurs. The real legends know about the secret prosecco table run by a group of Chelsea mums near Canary Wharf (mile 22, left side, look for the Louis Vuitton cool box). Or the pub outside The Cutty Sark that hands out pints of Guinness to anyone in fancy dress — priority given to Wombles. One year a man dressed as Borat accepted a shot of vodka at mile 18, immediately threw up on Big Ben (the costume, not the actual clock), and still finished in 4:12. That, ladies and gentlemen, is British resilience.
Celebrity Cameos and Royal Roasts
The royals love it. Prince Harry once ran the last mile incognito in 2019 (baseball cap, sunglasses, the works) until someone spotted the security detail jogging behind him looking miserable. Kate Middleton handed out water in 2017 and accidentally high-fived a man dressed as a giant penis. The photo lives rent-free on the internet.
Celebrities who actually run the thing often regret it. In 2023, TV presenter Chris Kamara discovered at mile 23 that his catchphrase “Unbelievable Jeff!” loses all meaning when you’re crying into a foil blanket. Comedian Joe Lycett ran dressed as a Victorian chimney sweep and live-tweeted the entire experience, including the moment he was overtaken by a 70-year-old man dressed as the Queen (God rest her soul).
The Soundtrack of Suffering
The best thing about London crowds? They are merciless. Chants of “You’ve picked a bad day to give up smoking!” ring out for anyone walking at mile 10. A man dressed as Spider-Man attempting to climb a lamp post at Tower Bridge was greeted with “Do a flip!” from 3,000 drunk spectators. And every single year, without fail, someone puts a sign at mile 21 that says “The wall is a myth.” It is not a myth. The wall is very real and it has a personal vendetta against your quads.
Everyday Heroes, Ridiculous Reasons
Behind every absurd costume is usually an absurdly good reason. The man running backwards in 2024 (yes, the entire way) was raising money for dementia because his mum used to say he “always did things backwards.” The group of 30 people chained together as a human centipede? Bowel cancer awareness. (Let that one sink in.) The bloke carrying a fridge on his back for 26.2 miles in 2000? He just wanted to know if he could. He could.
The Finish Line Carnival
Crossing the line on The Mall is emotional enough when you’re in normal clothes. Doing it dressed as a bottle of HP Sauce while your family scream “DAD YOU’RE A CONDIMENT!” from the stands is next-level catharsis. The St John Ambulance volunteers have seen it all — fainting Minions, hyperventilating Teletubbies, one memorable case of a man whose inflatable T-rex costume popped at mile 25 leaving him to finish the race stark naked except for trainers and a race number. They just handed him a foil blanket and said “Well done, sir.”
Why We Keep Coming Back
The elite runners remind us how fast humans can go. The fancy-dress brigade remind us why we bother going at all. In a city that sometimes feels too cool, too cynical, too expensive, the London Marathon is 42,000 people (plus a few hundred rhinos) proving that joy is still allowed to be loud, sweaty, and spectacularly undignified.
Next April, when you’re tucked up with a bacon sandwich watching grown adults dressed as crayons stagger past Buckingham Palace, raise a mug to them. They’re not just running a marathon.
They’re keeping London gloriously, hilariously weird.