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Tuesday, 18 April 2017

In which 'tis the cycling season...

Here we go, Dear Reader...

With the first glimpse of sunlight, they're out! The flip-flop wearing, tattooed, dimpled thighed delights...

Pale, translucent, clad in ghastly shorts and vests, displaying their illustrated bodies in gay abandon, putting the rest of us off our lunch until the November shadows fall.

But even they, in their Primarni splendour, pale into insignificance alongside the irritant cyclists.  With their moist gussets suctioned to their aero dynamic saddles, they clutter up the highways delaying the rest of normal humanity in their little ve-hicles from gaining access to our places of work.

Nothing can be more ghastly than the vision of a grim-faced, middle-aged sort, with a pained expression forging his way through town and country on his bicycle.

I blame that Bradley Wiggins!

Although I have to say, there's something strangely appealing about the sinewy cove.

But I'm glad it's not me who has to launder his moist gusset area.

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