Phil Liggett reporting:

(I make a disclaimer at the start. I am *the* world’s premier cycling journalist. Why on earth am I writing about this drongo Tour? That said, I’ve got to come down to earth after three weeks in La Belle France, so where more plebeian could one get than the Tour de Castlemaine?)

The poor Cousin of the cycling world, the Tour de Castlemaine, a one day non-classic, followed on days after the grande triomphe of the wondrous Tour de France on the Champs Elysées.

And, so, those riders absolutely not good enough to get a UCI Pro-Cycling Licence arrived in Castlemaine on a cold, showery winter’s morning. The Tour “caravane” arrived via V-Line Train and the six people who might barely pass for cyclists disembarked to a welcoming crowd of…nobody. Sorry, I correct myself, the man with the bike, plus two brief cases, an umbrella, four scarves and court shoes had a woman awaiting him. It must have been the debonair presentation.

The peloton did a short criterium around this picturesque Victorian gold-rush town. A scrawny looking Spaniard, known by the name of Alberto, was last seen Con-tinuing into a back dor of a known sleazy local doctor. Contrôle de dopage was noticeably absent in Castlemaine, even though the locals looked like they’d had a few drugs in their days.

As can be seen by the tour map, the stage was to exit Castlemaine, ride east and up the Category 2 climb of the Col de Chewton and then head south towards Melbourne. Notwithstanding many famous landmarks along the way, Lance-field was missed on the ride. So, the peleton set off without Alberto or Lance. The Schleck brothers could have been there, but they had been seduced by the local delicacies and were last seen quaffing jam tarts and cappuccinos in the local artisinal cafes.

After the départ fictif, the Tour started.

Amazingly, at the first sign of mountain climbing, the Col de Chewton, the not-well-known non-grimpeur, Glenn Hanafin attacked on the col. Reports have it that he asphyxiated himself as he drove himself too fast up the col, but the results were astounding, with the peleton not ever seen after he’d made his attack.

Known unaffectionately in cycling circles as “The Fat Git”, Hanafin attacked and broke the field. No-one chased and Hanafin seemed destined to ride the 150 odd kilometres on his own, with no slipstreaming or team-mate to assist him.

Decked out for the day in Team Saxo-Bank colours (albeit last year’s version, probably picked up for cheap via a Chinese imitator on ebay), Hanafin pressed ahead, setting a non-scintillating speed at average of 30 kmh on the journey to an allegedly fabled, tree-lined boulevard at ride’s end.

Hanafin set into a tempo, only stopping (indeed frequently) to do the most modern things on cycling tours these days, send and receive text messages.

Hanafin was hopelessly uncoordinated in his day’s preparations for the ride and rode the whole way without a team car or any assistance. As the weather set in for rainy periods, Hanafin was bereft of spray jackets. A notably unattractive cyclist, Hanafin had to try to focus his vision on the road ahead through rain-bespeckled spectacles.

Past landmarks such as the hors catégorie, Hanging Rock, Hanafin found the ride no picnic. He didn’t want to Mount Macedon, having contented himself, according to reports, from a few months ago having had his fun by mounting Donna Buang.

Hanafin also distinguished himself by being a photo-journalist along the route, as the usual throng of media, helicopters, cameramen on motorbikes and still photographers couldn’t be bothered recording the event.

In contrast to the Grand Tour de France, there was not a single person along the event watching the ride, no cheering, no blokes dressed up as Devils, no stupid tourists with their countries' flags draped around their necks as they might try to outrun a cyclist. There were kangaroos around the place, but none of the inflatable plastic type.

Eventually, after some four hours of uninspiring riding, Hanafin made it to the metropolis of Melbourne. Like some type of super-domestique or mule, he met up with a shady Melbourne veterinarian, a man well known to have horse steroids and all sorts of interesting injectable drugs. A photograph of this veterinarian was secretly taken, his identity requiring to be suppressed both by photo manipulation and also by limiting his naming to his preferred sobriquet, “Dr Dingles”.

Paul Sherwen, intervening here:

Phil, I’ve just sat in a tiny booth with you for the last three weeks on the Tour de France. Being in such close proximity to you after you’ve tried all of Gabriel Gaté’s delicacies has been one hard enough ordeal, but to have listened to you mangle all the French words and French place names was hard work and it’s only because I own a gold mine and wanted more money that I put up with you.

But, you are just really “très mauvais” at the French words, so trying to pretend you’re literate and worldly by using words like “sobriquet” and “grande triomphe” is enough. I’m just sick to death of your schoolboy year 5 French.

Just stick to your broomy midlands British accent and O Levels English and leave all the classy commentary to me.

Phil Liggett, returning, castigated:

OK, Paul, especially as you did ride in the Tour de France and the best I’ve done is to be the Race Director of something that is known in Britain as the “Milk Race”, I’ll defer to your comments and your justified criticism. I certainly don’t do French well.

Anyway, back to the Fat Git.

The Fat Git arrived in Melbourne to be met and welcomed by the one solitary person, the dubious vet, mentioned above. He duly uplifted an item from him and carried it off to the final destination. What was it? My journalistic prowess is not good enough to know.

What I do know is that the duo met at the Belgian Beer Café, an odd spot for a cyclist to stop off, even if Team Silence Lotto, a Belgian outfit, might have been there, drowning its sorrows for its terrible Tour performance and, at the same time, trying to drown their resident now former leader, Australian Cadel Evans.

After picking up the dubious item from the dubious vet, the Fat Git Hanafin continued onto the final destination, Richardson St in Albert Park, a tree lined boulevard, something only barely sort of like the famed Champs Elysées.

Paul Sherwen, interrupting again:

Phil, I told you to quit the French stuff. You can’t speak it, so don’t try. “Champs” does not have the “p” pronounced, as you always seem to do.

Phil Liggett, resuming:

OK, Paul, anything you say, Paul. After all, you did do seven tours de France, but were lucky to complete only four of them, struggling as a fat arsed loser in the gruppetto down the back.

Anyway, talking of Fat Arses, Hanafin duly made it to his destination to be met by absolutely no rapturous applause and by a grand crowd of…zero people. Not even Mike Tomalaris!

There were no beautiful girls to kiss him on the podium or for him to try to grope and leer at. Just a doleful end to a long day in the saddle and a very sore bum.

So, there were have it: the Tour de Castlemaine. Something that I’m not looking forward to reporting on again any time soon in the future.

I’m going back to drink some milk.

Yours in cyclery,
Phil Liggett.

PS. Oh no, talking of standing on the podium, that most bashful of Frenchmen, Bernard Hinault is approaching. Quick, let’s split. If you are not a genuine winner, his usual modus operandi is to throw the person on the podium off the stage – very roughly, like a Centurion would.

Bonjour, voici Bernard Hinault, »le Blaireau», le plus superbe cycliste du monde – pour toujours. Meilleur que le pauvre belge, Eddy Mercx et 100% meilleur que le Texane stupide qui prend les drogues mais qui nie absolument ce fait assurément évident, l’idiot Lance Armstrong.

Moi, je suis le suprême. Il n’y a aucun pilote de vélo qui se compare à moi.

En lisant des efforts de ce gros australien, Hanafin, pour lui; le nom “Fat Git” (que je comprends assez bien en anglais) est parfaitement vrai.

Je veux bien dire que ce “Fat Git”, lui, il ne sera jamais aussi bon que moi, le maître du cyclisme.

Ce Fat Git voulait bien rouler au Tour de Castlemaine, simplement pour gagner. Lui, il savait bien qu’il n’aurait pas d’opposition effectif et ça ne me surprend point qu’il a fini bien avant les autres, parce que les autres, eux, ils n’essayaient pas.

Tout ce qu’il voulait, le Fat Git, c’est d’embrasser les jolis nanas au podium et, peut-être, les embrasser bien fort et, forcément, essayer de les baiser (ce mot, ça s’interprète de deux possibilités! Hé, Ho, Ha!). Mais, avec moi, le Grand Blaireau, qui surveille le podium, il n’y aura aucune possibilité de ça. Je l’aurias jété avec violence du podium, s’il avait essayé. C’est moi, le grand Maître, le Boss, le Blaireau.

Il est bon qu’il a fini, seul, sans amis, avec une grande foule de zéro personnes en présence.

Il est un grand connard, ce Fat Git, pas comme moi, le Dieu du cyclisme, le Roi des pédaleurs, moi, le Blaireau, Bernard Hinault, Champion pour toujours.

Paul Sherwen, back again,

Sorry, folks, being a Gold Mine Owner, a man of the world and a man who can speak French, I am both embarrassed by this sudden intrusion of the “Le Blaireau”, “The Badger”.

Being as articulately bi-lingual as I am, I’ll translate this over-inflated ego’s words. So here is your translation:

“Hello, here I am, the Badger, Bernard Hinault, the most superb cyclist ever in world history. Much better than the pissy Belgian, Eddy Mercx, and 100% than that stupid Texan, who takes drugs but always denies it, the idiot, Lance Armstrong.

“Me, I am the Greatest. There’s never been a bike rider who compares to me.

“Reading about the efforts of this fat Aussie, the “Fat Git” (a phrase that I can understand well enough in English), I say that that name suits him perfectly.

“The Fat Git wanted to ride in the Tour de Castlemaine, just because he knew he’d win it. He knew that he’d have no effective opposition and I’m hardly surprised that he finished well ahead of the others, because, of course, they weren’t even trying.

“All that Fat Git wanted to do was to get up on the podium and get kissed by the hot chicks and maybe kiss them back and give them a big kiss, with the funny double meaning that the two words for “kiss” in French have. Ha Ha Ha! But with me, the Badger, patrolling the podium, he would never had stood a chance and I’d have tossed him violently off the podium, had he tried. That’s me: The Master. The Boss. The Badger.

“I’m pleased that he finished on his own, lonely, no friends or fans, with a huge crowd of zero people to see him finish.

“He’s a big dickhead, that Fat Git, not like me, the God of Cycling, the King of Pedalers, the Badger. Bernard Hinault, Champion for ever and ever.

Paul Sherwen, resuming.

Well, I’m sorry, he was a great cyclist, but is, in fact, a huge prat, that Bernard Hinault, always up on the podium, zipping up the winners, probably chatting those hot babes back stage and always wearing that stupid white shirt and Marks and Spencer brown trousers. Get a life, Bernard. Go badger someone else.

And, with those remarks and Phil sulking somewhere about my comments about his French and his farting in the commentary box, it’s time to sign off from this unimpressive event, won by the sole competitor who made the distance, the Fat Git, Glenn Hanafin.