Is All About the Race!
In much the same way that the queen of England thinks that her country is smell of fresh paint, so all professional cycle jockeys are thinking that France is smell of Domesto and ¡Cillit Bof! This is because every year, when the Tour de France is passing through, the towns and villages on the route receive the instructions from the government tourist office that they must clean the place up and make it look and sound spotless for all the foreingers who are watching on TV or who might be smelling it on their way through. The televisioning of the Tour de France is one long advertisement for how beautiful the country is, a brilliant contrick that empty the pockets of millions of gullible Europeans each year who are decepted into visiting it, by which point it is too late. What they are fail to realize is that the route of the Tour is changing every year, and only those towns which are on the route get cleaned, with the result that France as a whole only really gets a clean once every 20 years. Still, that is twice as often as Italy.
Is Not About the Yank!
Thus, when the stupid tourist is arrive, they discover that the real smell of France is not lavender and bergamot at all, but goat’s cheese and hauteur. Is a disgraceful big shock! And of course, the French people themselves are never noticing the smell, because they are there all the time and their bodies have become immuned, in the same way that fish are not knowing that they are in water. Still, it would only take a little bit of research by the stupid tourist to find out that France is widely famous for its cheese and hauteur parties (which the English turn into the cheese and whine party when they try to replicate their France holiday at home). It is always paying to read up on the country you are going to visit before you get there. French customs, in particular, can come as a bit of shock. For esample, I think it was Bill Bryson, in his hilarious novel Around Ireland in a Fridge, which said, and I quote,
“Your average Frenchie thinks nothing of dropping trou in the town square and defecating in the gutter, all the while munching on his croque monsieur and engaging in animated conversation with his swarthy amigos about the Abyss.”
I am not knowing what is the Abyss—I espect it is a bistro or a strip club in Pigalle—but croque monsieur is melted cheese on top of toasted bread, which, I am sure you will agree, sounds perfectly revolting!
Anyway, as usual, the Tour de France was won this year by a brilliant Spanish jockey, the diminutive and handsome Alberto Contador, who has been win already in 2007. He beat the other jockeys by a country mile, which is five kilometers. To add spice to the event this year, the race also was seeing the return from retirement of the great American jazz jockey Louis Armstrong, who have won this race in the past on no fewer than 30 occasions, but who had to go into retirement when it was discovered that he had catched cancer of the trom bone, which meant that he could not sit down for long periods of time, and especially not on his tool, which is how he call his bike, the tool of his trade. Armstrong’s reappearance at the race was met with some cheers, especially from those peoples who feel that all sports benefit with the great personal rivalries, such as the ones Nadal/Federer, Hamilton/Massa, Schumacher/Levy, Beckham/Fans, and Chambers/UK Athletics, because even though he was on the same team as the brilliant Contador, Armstrong is not having any love lost between him, and he would have like very much to win the race for himself. And also because he is a bit of a cunt. Even so, when Armstrong was clearly and soundly beated by the better human being, he was admitting it openly to the media, which everybody thought was both gracious and sneaky, because it is nothing like him usually, and also because he said it while Contador was miles away.
Is becoming almost embarrassing now for the Spanish that they are winning this race so often without the use of amphetamines or Viagra to keep them going. People are often asking the queston, how come it is the Spanish who are always win? Why is there not no Dutch winners or Chinese winners? After all, the bicycling is their main form of transportation in those countries. You would espect them to be the best by an elongated chalk, would you not? But this is only going to show what an idiot people are. Have another look at those countries and you will realize that there are no great Dutch or Chinese jockeys because the cycling is too EASY in their countries. They are all flat! By contrast, cycling in Spain is made very hard by the hills, mountains, absence of roads, absence of saddles and pedals, and the banning of the wheel by Franco. Is for the same reason that the Africans always make such good runners: No cars!
We tend to forget in the disgusting decadent modern world that physical superiority is acquired only at some cost to comfort. Master races are built out of self-discipline, intense prayer, flogging, tying one’s genitals to the bumper of a bus, or, if not your own genitals, someone else’s, and living on a diet of bread and water for months at a time. In fact, I am writing a book on this subject, Punish Yourself to Success!: The Ten Rules of Self-Denial and Abasement Used by the World’s Leading Ascetics. I am especting a phone call from Rupert Murdoch any day now.
Now you are know all about my favourite race. Tell me, both my reader, which is your favourite race and why?
I work with a French guy. This post explains a LOT.
I’ve been plagued by two constant races my entire life it would seem. The brow dripping race to beat the ‘last orders’ cry at the end of a hard day’s swallying seems to be favourite. Closely followed of course by the trouser flappping, ring stinging race to the karsi after that divils own vindaloo round at Sweary’s of a Friday neet.
If only that young lady could cook as well as she can blather.
Hola Minnow!
When you are say, “work with,” I assume you mean you are the one who do the work.
Besos
Manuel
Hola Jimmy Bastrad!
Sweary does not count as a race! She is a sex!
Besos
Manuel
Manuel, Sweary is a sex alreet, a mighty sex-e lay-dee indeed.
The Spouse Sparrow used to work in France. He said it would be a lovely country, if not for the people.
Here is where I kiss ass… My favorite race right now would be the Spaniards. I had ancestors who were lieutenants in the Armada, and then ended up in Ireland. Of course we’re degenerate Yanks now, but nobody’s perfect.
Hola Jimmy Bastrad Again!
But have you ever been in a sex race? I came first.
Besos
Manuel
Hola Sparro!!
Is not kissing the ass! Is a perfectly justifiable and morally admirable opinion, backed up by objective fact. Even if it is held by an American!
Besos
Manuel
I once raced a youthful, lithe, athletic Marlon Brando over a hundred meter distance for the prize of a doughnut. He beat me by a furlong, but something changed in him as he devoured his prize. When the jam touched his tongue, his eyes glazed over and he seemed to fall into some kind a trance.
When I met him Three months later in California he’d swollen to around thirty stone. His girlfriend at the time asked of me, “is this him?”. Brando replied, “yes”, and she promptly broke my jaw with a left hook. True story.
Hola Flann!
The horror! The horror!
Besos
Manuel
Going back to your original point about the teletidy streets of France, we have the world’s biggest arts festival starting in Edinburgh soon and we’re preparing the streets especially by pissing off the bin men who are working to rule and increasing the rat population by the minute.
Welcome to Scotland!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Hola Queenie!
Is not a problem. You can hold a rat race!
Besos
Manuel
Laurie Taylor is agree with me:
“I also had to bite my tongue, as I was given the news that once again there was something special about drinking French wine in France, that only the French could make proper goat’s cheese, and that only in French markets was it possible to buy tomatoes with that special French taste.
For two weeks I was also forced to ignore the foul manners of French drivers, the dog excrement on every pavement, the abysmal quality of French music and popular entertainment, and a degree of bureaucracy which had me queuing for a whole half hour at the local post office in order to retrieve a fax that had been sent from home.”
And he is a Communist!
Bon Dia Manuel
My favourite race is the Donkey Derby. Or as it’s better known West Brom v Wolves.
‘dios
Martin
Hola Martin!
And such small donkeys!
Besos
Manuel
I was in France once. Along with my friends, we hitchiked to Paris and we slept under the Effiel Tower. We bought beer and hid it in the bushes one afternoon and went site-seeing. When we came back that night our beer was gone. Stolen! By the Gendarmerie. Next morning they kicked us out of our sleeping bags before the real money paying tourists arrived to go up the tower. So we washed our socks in their fountains and left Paris forever.
I loose the race to the computer every day. My girlfriend always sneaks in before me.
Hola Ron!
Knowing the Gendarmerie, they probably sell your booze to the real money-paying tourists!!
Besos
Manuel
Hola from San Diego.
The only race I care about this time of year is making sure to beat out the Zonies i.e tourists from Arizona, when staking out my spot on la playa.
Pass the cocca butter por favor?
Besos
Penelope not Cruz
Forgot to say I have also been to dog sh*t centraal, oops thought I was in Amsterdam again (I wish), oops I mean France and agree that the countryside is lovely, the bread and wine muy bueno but the people are merdeux!!
Besos
Penelope Going for a Cruz
Hola Penelope!
I understood “Hola from San Diego.” Everything else was completely outside my comprehending.
Besos
Manuel