Shrill whispers in the peloton, “….The Wattmeister is finished…a has-been…a never-was…can’t sprint for toffee…too fat to climb…as aerodynamic as a fridge freezer…”, and worst of all, “..what is Paris-Brest-Paris anyway?”
During January and Febraury, post Saturday Regents Park club gatherings in the coffee shop have lately adopted a different tone.
Imagine the saloon in a western...The Wattmeister makes his lonely entrance after trailing the group back to Muswell Hill. The regulars, Iron Mike, Big Mig, Dingle Dave, Pistol, Cup a Soup, Del Boy and even Sloe Bethan look up at the forlorn figure….dropped from the peloton on the first lap, bibshorts on inside out, and wearing a faded PBP shirt from 2003.
Conversation is momentarily halted, a collective and sad shake of the head….someone mutters…”he was never much good, let’s tell him to join the bowls club”.
Shunned by his former domestiques, The Wattmeister vows to cure himself of the persistent cough by gargling every morning with neat TCP, eating chopped lemon rind and wearing a balaclava at all times….something that upset the staff in the Nationwide.
After weeks of this alternative treatment, the cough had got worse, he lost his sense of taste and smell, and was banned from all banking establishments in the village. Skint and smelly, The Wattmeisterin suggested that he visit the doctor.
“The doctor, or a doctor?” asked TW.
“What are you talking about you delusional old fool?” remarked her highness in a kindly but assertive tone.
“I am…..I mean, I was an athlete darling, there’s no way I’m allowed to see ‘the’ doctor…it would look bad. In my biography I stated that I had a strict “no ‘the’ doctors policy”. ”
“Get yourself up to the GP before I have you sectioned …..again!”
To be continued….