Due to the chronic incompetence of my erstwhile penultimate ISP, I have been without the Internet at my chosen location for blogging for the last few weeks. I hope the sexually-suggestively named aeronautical counterpart of a certain transcontinental-ballooning magnate’s local telco empire aren’t as hamfistedly unhelpful and bad at what they do for their customers, or there’ll be red-tailed passenger aircraft falling out of the sky ere long. So now I’ve got real broadband, thanks to a proper telco, I can continue my sometimes bicycle-related tirades.
Le Tour . . . what can I say that Rupert Guinness hasn’t? He’s Australia’s best cycling journalist bar none. Mike Tomalaris, however, is at best, only barely competent to pronounce anything interestingly bike-related. Interesting to see the two chatting at the end of the stages, with Mike’s questions floundering ever deeper into the mire of his incomprehension of things road-racing related (even tho’ he’s supposed to be a cyclist, according to his blog, and has been doing this for 12 years . . . is it that long?), and his inarticulacy stretching even previously stretchy bounds, and Rupert bravely trying to dig him out or rein him in. If you contrast him to Phil Liggett, then you can see what I mean. Phil may be occasionally subject to the odd malapropism, and starting to get a bit forgetful as to names and teams – he’s ably wingmanned by Paul Sherwin, but he definitely isn’t Mike: colourless, talentless and rarely in contact with the cyclists themselves. He’s not even as hilariously as bad as Bob Roll, the American commentator. Give David Mackenzie the job, or Matt Keenan. They’re both better than Mike.
Oh yeah. Go Cadel. Make Robbie McEwan smile for us and win it, please?