OK, there’s a very slim chance he did but he probably didn’t.

Anyway, what he definitely did do was to write a review of the Tesla Roadster in the Mail on Sunday’s LIVE magazine which included a lefty baiting rant about hating herbal tea drinking cyclists and an anecdote about parping his horn at a group of cyclists as he silently sped past in the electric sports car. The sheer shock of him tooting his tooter, according to his story at least, forced the unsuspecting riders off the road into the hedge.

James Martin successfully catches the first of 1000 bikes to be thrown at him.

Sadly his version of events have been deleted from the Mail’s Website so I stole them from elsewhere:

Twenty minutes into my test drive I pulled round a leafy bend, enjoying the birdsong – and spotted those Spider-Man cyclists. Knowing they wouldn’t hear me coming, I stepped on the gas, waited until the split second before I overtook them, then gave them an almighty blast on the horn at the exact same time I passed them at speed.

The look of sheer terror as they tottered into the hedge was the best thing I’ve ever seen in my rear-view mirror. I think this could be the car for me.

Brilliant, James. Just brilliant.

And his article has caused an ugly storm on the internet. Thanks to the wonder of Twitter and seemingly all the internet’s cycling Web sites every British cyclist has now read the article and become outraged by his now deleted words. In fact the shock of reading the article was so great I sprayed my Clippers Green Tea with Echinacea all over my keyboard!

Did it Really Happen? Did it?

Now, I realise this fact will amaze and shock you in equal measures: I’ve never met James Martin – but its hard to find anyone who’s not on HRT with anything nice to say about him.

Take the British Courts, for example. They ruled he was a liar. Back in 2008 his former stepmother sued him and won damages after extracts of his autobiography were published in a paper in which he labelled her the “ugliest women he had ever met” – oh, and he wrote some nastier stuff about her being a terrible witch of a stepmother that wasn’t as school boyishly funny so we’re under playing that.

However, what with this being the Daily Hate Mail I suspect that, as inappropriate as his comments were, James’ article was somewhat playing to the crowd. Was his encounter with the cyclists simply an exaggeration to add a touch of spice to his review? From my experience of Daily Mail readers, the tale of James’ Mr Toad antics could only have raised more self satisfied guffaws from the breakfast tables across the Home Counties if it had turned out the cyclists were, in fact, disabled, illegal immigrants.

Of course that doesn’t excuse him. His words were at best ill-judged and at worst an irresponsible admission of law breaking. Nor does his subsequent “sincere” apology – although apologies phrased as “Do you lot not have a sense of humour or what?” never seem particularly sincere to me – provide him with a get out of jail card.

But his claim that it was just a joke only leads me to believe that James either has a very strange sense of humour or he made the whole story up.

54,00 Complaints

Ross and Brand: A right pair of fuckers.

What’s interesting about this affair is how similar it seems to – the lazily named – Sachs-gate scandal that quite literally rocked the Daily Mail’s readership to its very stone-hearted core last year and yet how different the response of the Mail is.

On that ocassion the Mail embarked on a moral crusade to defend public decency – sadly it was too late to defend the chastity of Manuel’s Satanic Slut granddaughter, Georgina – which resulted in 54,000 complaints – 53,999 of which came from readers who hadn’t even heard of Russell Brand let alone the broadcast itself before the crusade began. But it also resulted in Brand and the controller of Radio 2 resigning and meant that 100′s, if not 1000′s, of Bridge Clubs had to cancel matches as their memebers stayed at home to write “Outraged of Eastbourne” letters to the Beeb.

Fast forward 12 months and when the Daily Mail publish an article – written by a BBC employee – containing a remorseless admission of “driving like a nutsack” that could, without exaggeration, caused someone’s death, they’re keeping tight lipped.

Harassment of the not so vulnerable elderly – oh no, no, no. Harassment of vulnerable cyclists- oh yes, yes, yes.

Has the Mail started a crusade to sack James Martin from its paper? Has the Editor resigned? Have they even mustered an apology? Has a monkey flown out of my butt?

This hippocracy is undoubtedly down to the Mail not really giving a flying fuck about cyclists – although if the truth be told, they didn’t give a flying fuck about Andrew Sachs or his granddaughter either they simply had an axe to grind with the BBC and a paper to sell. And they seem not to give one about honesty, transparency nor the decency that they previous did so much to defend. By demonstrating a level of journalistic integrity that you’d wouldn’t expect from a shoddy blogger they surreptitiously removed the offending words from the online version without so much of a by your leave, and closed the comments section’s flood gates to stop the deluge of complaints.

So James Martin might not have fucked your granddaughter but he surely deserves the sack from the Mail just as much as Britain’s cyclists deserve an apology from the paper.

Naff. Naff. Naff.

I suppose, before I go any further, I should come clean here and confess that my feelings towards folding bikes are more than somewhat coloured by the fact that, when we were children, my sister had one. It was a real horrorshow of a bike – some sort of Raleigh, its cream finish offset delightfully by the white wall tyres on the tiny wheels. It had moulded plastic handlebar grips that after ten minutes of riding made your hands burn as if you’d been holding a pair of curling irons. It was hard to make “go” because the lever on the Sturmey Archer was stiffer than a teenager at a women’s beach volley ball tournament and even harder to make “stop” thanks to brakes that had so little power, pulling the level felt like you were pressing a wet sponge against a jelly. It also had a basket.

And worst of all, my sister – being 2 years older than me – used to regularly kick my arse on it.

So, there, now you know.

Shockingly, despite this naffness – and my deep psychological scarring – the folding bike is now more popular than ever with 60, if not 70, percent of all doorways on trains into London currently blocked by a folding bike. All of which might be a pain for those commuters without their right trouser leg tucked into their socks, but is great news for the granddaddy of the folding bike - Brompton.

What’s not quite such good news for Brompton, is that the folding bike’s image problem is compounded by the fact that it’s also British built – a fact which essentially uses the unstylish, yet powerful, thumb of bad taste to shift the bike’s Sturmey Archer hub of naffness into third. Because, and I’m wildly generallising here, British manufacturing has struggled to do the whole “cool” thing making everything seems to be a little bit, well, naff.

But before you tut-tut and tell me I’m “Bally well out of order, old chap”, it’s not just me. Look! Alexei Sayle thinks so too:

“If the British had invented the Walkman, it would have been a teak box, covered in leatherette, with the headphones out of a Lancaster bomber”

Maybe it’s our pragmatism that makes us place function over form. Maybe we’re too rational and not emotional enough. Maybe we genuinely would rather be Richie than the Fonz. Whatever the reason, while we were out taking “country jaunts” on our drab Pashley’ Roadster Classic:

More tea, Vicar?

Our European neighbours, the Italians, were knocking out things of beauty like Coppi’s 1952 Bianchi:

"I've just shagged a nun."

Hey, You There! What Are You?

But in the midst of all this naffness, almost behind our backs, something unusual happened. Something completely unexpected has happened. Something involving Brompton turned out to be *cool* – the Brompton World Championships.

As you can imagine, these *cool* Championships weren’t held in Britain. The first was held back in 2006 in Barcelona by the Spanish importer of Bropmton bikes. And despite not being able to find any reports or pictures, I like to think that each and every one of those taking part were nonchalant chicos who whilst racing through the exotic streets of Barcelona each offer a casual “Hola, guapa!” to every girl they pass. Sounds like a reasonable, yet in no way over glamourised, and highly plausible description of events, doesn’t it?

Anyway, whatever actually took place in Barcelona, Brompton liked what they saw enough to bring the event back home to Blighty. And, would you believe, in the process turned the World Championships from something that was exotic and cool into something slighly less so:

Some riders will try anything to draw attention away from the naffness of the bike they're riding.

After You. No, After You. No, No…

With its strict dress code of shirt, tie, and jacket the Championship was moved to Blenheim Palace – the home of the most British of Brits: Winston “Bloody British” Churchill – making it a Spanish fantasy no more but a quintessential British affair. A celebration of our spiffing British eccentricity.

Of course, in reality, it’s also a cynical marketing ploy by Brompton – preaching their “brand messages” to the converted. Quite literally peddling naffness to people who are quite literally peddaling naffness. But we’re all too terribly, terribly  British to mention that, aren’t we?

Maybe the quirky rules, the location, and the prospect of another day away from the family is a spot on recreation of your average Brompton rider’s experience of community by train/bike – but it’s not mine. So here are a few ideas I’ve had to make the event a little truer to the my train/bicycle commuter’s experience:

• Before the race, the competitors are held in a cramp, smelly, and searingly hot compartment with their face pressed into a stranger’s armpit for 45 minutes.
• Instead of clapping and cheering on the participants, the crowd geer and throw insults at the riders as they pass.
• Taxis suddenly pull out into the path of riders at various points around the course.
• The event is only held if it’s raining.
• To win the race, each competitor MUST hold a door open for someone – even though you’re the one with the bike – AND have shouted “Wanker!” at someone along the course regardless whether it was actually them in the wrong or not.

Let’s hope they bring these in for the 2010 event to make it proper British, innit?

Don’t I Know You From Somewhere?

Bringing a bit of the Spanish cool to last year’s Championships was ex-Pro Roberto Heras:

Roberto Heras injected some, erm, professionalism into proceedings

What was most startling about his participation in last year’s event is just how much of an improvement to your performance an effective doping programme can really make. With it, you can win a Grand Tour, with out it, you can only finish 2nd in a fold-up bike race.

And speaking of recovering drugs cheat not performing at their best, Floyd Landis finished 25th in the recent Tour of Utah:

Landis about to have his ass whooped for a 2nd time by Williams

After being beaten by Utah Jazz’s Deron Williams in a pre-race publicity time trail, Floyd Landis carried his form into the race proper, finally being beaten by 24 other riders. Jolly good show, Floyd.

French Cycling's become a "three flusher"

Or more to the point, down one of these:

Confounder of many an English child desperate to go

The effect of this is there for all the world to see, the French haven’t won their own race at their own sport since Laurent Fignon and his pony tail did it back in 1984.

And in those 25 years, and 25 Tours, many a French riders and their carzy terrible hair have lined up on the start line, their hearts full of hope only to cross the finishing line in Paris wearing only their tear-stained jerseys – and matching shorts, of course. Oh, and after 2003, helmets. And shoes and socks, yes, shoes and socks. And gloves, don’t forget gloves. Most of them wear glasses now too, don’t they? Really, what I meant is, no Frenchman has won the Tour in 25 years and it upsets them.

France 6 – Britain 9

Well, this year things have got a little bit worse for them – they’re only able to select 6 riders for the World Championships.

But before we laugh too heartily, we should spare a little sympathy for them. Because cycling is to the French what cricket is to the English – despite each inventing our respective sports but neither of us can beat the Dutch at it.

And it’s this belief that the sport is in some way “ours” that raises the level of expectation, and with it pressure, for success and makes it so much more disappointing when the Australians inevitably win.

To be fair, the French more likely than not couldn’t give a flying fromage about success in the velodrome – it’s their singular lack of anything remotely resembling a “result” in the Classics and the Grand Tours that’s got their French knickers all in a knot.

All of which means that despite taking 3 stages at this years Tour, French riders have performed so badly in the last 12 months, that they will only be able to select 6 riders for the World Championships. Frances disappointment at this abject failure was surely only compounded when they discovered that the British qualified for the full 9 riders.

Which leaves me feeling a little sorry for, the French National Team Manager, Laurent Jalabert. Jalabert has many claims to fame:

• He’s the subject of the most famous Tour de France photos ever taken,
• He’s the  second best French rider to never win the Tour (after Pou Pou)
• He’s the third most famous person with a name that sounds like JaJa (after Zsa Zsa Gabor and Jar Jar Binks)

To which he can now “Managing the biggest bunch of sadsacks that France has produced in many a year”. Despite the gloom he seems in philosophical mood, telling French sports daily L’Equipe:

“It’s very disturbing,” Jalabert told French sports dailyL’Equipe. “This does not mean that we are already beaten, but it says a lot about the true position of France in international cycling. I hope this will at least provoke some thought.”

We can only hope that as disturbed as he is, during his period of thought, Jalabert is still sane enough to not listen to Bernard Hinault. As in his pre-Tour interview, you know the one that made Lance Armstrong type the word “Wanker”, Hinault’s take on the situation in French cycling was as follows:

“There are champions who become like civil servants when they turn pro. You have to put a knife to their throats to get any results,” Hinault said. “The French earn too much money and don’t make enough effort.”

Presumably Hinault is speaking from experience here, as aparrently during the height of his career, The Badger wasregularly threatened with being hit over the head by a spade then dumping by the side of the road to make it look like a car had hit him. And remember, these were the pre-2003 days, before compulsory helmet wearing in Pro races. A much more severe threat.

Even so, threatening to kill your riders if they don’t perform seems a little extreme to say the least. Here in the UK we like to leave that job to other road users. But then, it doesn’t seem to have done our riders any harm, so maybe Hinault does have a point.