I’ve always considered myself to be one of life’s runners-up.

And I’m more than OK with that.

After all, isn’t there something more glorious about the gallant loser, left wondering what might have been, than the ugliness of the winner demanding our applause?

No nation celebrates an athlete losing heroically quite like the English, and for what it’s worth, I suspect we’re all the better for it.

It’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure of basking in the beauty of finishing second, but at Hampden Park last week in front of, well, an empty crowd, I once again experienced the painful joy of being “close but no cigar”.

There I was sitting in the media room deep within the bowels of the stadium, polishing off a particularly tasty steak and ale pie, when I was invited to take part in media mile race, being held shortly between the morning and evening athletics sessions.

To say I wasn’t prepared would be a gross understatement.

In a stroke of good fortune, however, I’d decided to wear a grimy old tracksuit to “work” on that particular day.

Not in inspiration of the sporting magnificence that had been unfolding before my eyes, I might add, but because I’d woken up late after an evening carousing with two new friends of mine — McEwan’s and Tennent’s.

As I made my way to the track, via a quick stop at the latrine (an embarrassing habit I’ve developed over the years before any type of performance), I was confronted with the worrying sight of 40 or so of my fellow hacks dressed in state-of-the-art sporting attire.

I obviously hadn’t received the memo. Either that or I hadn’t checked my emails, which in reflection appears a far more plausible explanation.

Not only was there more Spandex on show than an afternoon with Miss Whiplash, but these people were stretching. Actually stretching!

Suddenly, I felt compelled to perform a few half-hearted limbering up motions of my own.

To be honest, I felt a little silly. Although, not quite as silly as a rather rotund Australian who had somehow poured himself into a pair of wholly inappropriate abbreviated shorts.

Like all Antipodeans, he carried an air of confidence about him that made me feel uneasy.

Any nerves I had were further jangled by the sight of Darren Campbell, an Olympic gold medal-winner for Great Britain, firing the starting gun.

Campbell knows a thing or two about running, and so did a few of these scribes, judging by the amount of colourful Lycra on display.

To my dismay, the Australian set off like a proverbial Tasmanian devil, his abbreviated shorts disappearing into the distance at a disconcerting rate.

Encouragingly, by the second lap I had hauled him in almost as quickly as the steak and ale pie was working its way through my digestive system.

A spent force paying the price for poor tactics and one too many shrimps on the barbie, the Aussie was powerless to my slick overtaking manoeuvre, climbing me into second.

With the leader out of sight and confident I’d avoided any potential embarrassment of crossing the finish line in first, I began to prepare myself for the sweet sensation of silver, but was startled by a worrying noise at my rear.

No, it wasn’t the steak and ale pie repeating on me, nor the Australian in the short shorts (he was still chugging away like an old tugboat), but a New Zealand reporter wearing equally questionable running garb as myself.

From a prepubescent age, I was taught that more often than not the difference between winning and losing was decided by “who wants it more”.

And judging by the Kiwi’s wild eyes and guttural grunts emanating from some deep, dark orifice, it seemed as though he did in fact want it slightly more than me.

I was about to do what any self-respecting Englishman would do and let the old chap through, when I remembered just what was at stake: the mythical runners-up position.

With this in mind, I attempted to shift through my gears only to discover, much to my alarm, that I didn’t have any. I was practically in neutral.

It was much as I could manage to fend off this unforeseen threat, completing the race, organised in aid of Unicef, just shy of shattering the six-minute barrier.

Admittedly, it’s a time Roger Bannister wouldn’t have been overly proud of, but did he become the first man to run the sub-four-minute mile having inhaled a steak and ale pie as his pre-race meal?

Nope, I think not.