About turn

Forget what I said yesterday; I was talking out of my fez.  The Olympic velodrome was every cycling schoolboy's dream.  I was able to hire some shoes, so I was on the pace throughout.  It was extremely exciting.  The staff were all courteous and knowledgeable, and the kit we got to use was splendid.  

I went along with a colleague, and we both agreed at the end that here was a new mania to add to the pile.  We actually stopped on the way out and had a look around the velodrome's bike shop for track bikes.  This on the basis of one hour's track cycling.  Had I done this taster session at 14, I'd have been lost to track cycling for the rest of my days - no question about that.  But as a middle-aged man, I don't have the time to commit to excellence in this new sporting passion.  I do, however, have money.  And track cycling can part a fool from his hard-earned quicker than a waxed Russian prostitute in a hot tub on the roof of Caesar's Palace.  There were a pair of track mitts in the velodrome shop for example that cost £49.99, ferrchrissakes.  That's what I pay for frames.  What could they be made of to justify that price tag?  Italian marble?  Heroin?

In other news - Mrs O and I had been planning to visit Tel Aviv in October, but that now looks about as likely as Rolf Harris winning a BAFTA.  It's going off there le big style.  So we're probably going to bottle out and go to Spain instead.  The last thing the warring factions in the occupied territories need is a pale horrified cock-er-knee like me looking on.  No - discretion is deffo the better part of this chicken's valour.  Thanking you.