Summer 2011
Dear Diary,
I’ve had a funny few weeks; I met this old cove called Patrick, told me he runs the cycling business over in Europe. He’s from Ireland, don’t you know, not much between the ears but we got on like the proverbial house on fire. I used to do a bit myself way back when I was knee-high to a penny-farthing. Back when I was a lad in the seventies, Daddy sent me to Cambridge for my education and I met some spiffing lads at the university cycling club. I used to a turn a fair wheel ’round the lanes back then, I tell you what. I got my blue, won the cuppers twice on the trot, and cantered to the team prize at varsity, too. That’s where I picked up my English accent, never could shake it, so I keep schtum for my British visits to Queen Liz and whatnot, patiently listen to the translators, that’s what I say, one doesn’t want to offend. Mum’s the word eh?
Young McQuaid - Emerald smiles and kisses all around
Anyhow, this chap Patrick didn’t go to Cambridge or any of that lark, he spent his youth as an outdoors type – you know the sort, pedalling with a heavy tread through the shires alone in the rain in search of a living, that sort of rot. Sounds somewhat miserable to me, but each to their own I guess; around that time I could most likely be found sunning myself on the yacht in Antibes with a very dry (or rather wet) Martini, I suspect. Anyway, that was long ago, now he runs the aforementioned cycling whatsit, I met him schmoozing some nice chaps from Saudi Arabia at the BAE arms bash down in London, trying to convince them to put on a bike race, don’t you know, of all the places. Anyhoo, as I said we hit it right off from the bat for six and all that, we spent that night frequenting his favourite theme pubs in Chelsea with King “Kong” Abdullah from Saudi Arabia and Kim “Kippers” Jong Il*, at pubs such as Paddy’s Irish Emporium, Scruffy Murphy’s, and The Guinness Innus amongst others. I was jolly squiffy by the end of it, woke up in a police cell a little worse for wear, I don’t mind telling you. It turns out I stole a policeman’s hat on account of a bet I made with Kongdullah at Scruffy’s; it was all frightfully embarrassing. Daddy knew the judge, so I only got a clip ’round the ear and a five pound fine.
*R.I.P, he never should have had that second yard of the 1992 BeaverKriek Bruin 9.4% at Fergal’s Drinking Hole.
Where was I? Ah yes, Patrick Diarmuid Fergus McQuaid his name is, although once I introduced him to the boys down at the club he quickly ended up with the nickname “Fatters Patters” on account of his uncanny ability to eat twenty-one boiled eggs in a single sitting. I’ve never seen anything quite like it; he beat the record by some seven eggs, previously held by Barmy Fingleton of the Fingleton-Fingletons. I could never look at him in quite the same way after that, he always seemed to have a faraway eggy glaze in his eyes from that point on. I might be dreaming, but there may have always been an ever-so-slight stain, a trickle of yellow from the side of his mouth, too; he never could scrub it away.
So to the story in question, ah yes, it turned out old Fatters was in a bit of a pickle since all these cyclists in his races were off taking funny potions and things. Bad for the image, don’t you know, all the spectators knowing about it, bad for ratings, betting and sponsors and things, the whole thing was putting him in a frightful quandary. I mean, put it like this: let’s say you decided one sunny Sunday to take the banger out to Royal Ascot to have a good old innocent flutter on the gee-gees with your chums. All well and good so far, I hear you say and quite right too, but what if you found out that you lost a tenner because Sunny Boy got pipped at the post by Old Man Asquith – and all because he was given a whiff of the old elixir, the good stuff, you know, the proverbial Pot Belge as they call it? Reverse nobbling, that’s what it is and it’s not on, what?
Presented with a right hum-dinger I set the old Lukashenko grey matter to the business at hand: problem solving. It wasn’t long before I hit my cadence and sprinted for the line, in first place, naturally. Although one doesn’t want to brag, an idea popped out so ripe you could sprinkle some parsley on top and serve it to Queen Cleopatra herself I dare say, with a glass of ass’s milk on the side.
"Forget the old cycling countries and come to my place."
“Patters” I said, I said “Patters dear friend, your days of trouble and strife are behind you, old chap because I have a cunning idea.” That made his ears prick up somewhat, I can tell you. “You need some new spectators; the old ones know too much old bean. Yes, you need new ones that don’t know about all those mischievous wheelers’ nefarious wrong-doings. Forget the old cycling countries and come to my place, I’ll put on a bike race like you’ve never seen before.” To say Pat was pleased was a little short of the mark, he was positively beaming.
So I set about putting some things in motion and now little old Belarus is holding the world track championships next year in my back garden, no less. Of course I can’t have any spectators except for the pre-approved locals. I’ll have quite a job keeping the old journos out too, but needs must as they say.
Toodle pip and a good old chin-chin to the Belarus 2013 world track championships!
Cheerio to Belarus 2013
Until next time, dear diary,
~Alexander “Nobbly Quads” Lukaschenko
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