The Bicyclists

The bridge is a bastard. Whoever built the little bits on the side for punters to walk on and ride their bikes needs to be shot with a ball of their own. The world outside your own bedroom is an amazing place. At 9am on Sunday morning, there are no fat bastards around. Even the triumvirate of bicyclists who leapt away from the Yacht Club were looking decidedly trim. "Only one souvlaki please Jim, and the medium chips" - Kimber had ordered from the Mykonos on Saturday evening. The cask of wine was reduced through constant attention (like a good gravy reduction, ready to paste). So; Fitz can't find the internet: "It's everywhere" Larkey said, but not near the Gibbons's housing. So he went for a walk up Hartz Peak with Mo (remember the Australian comedian 'Mo'? During the 1930s I suspect - further report on that later): full report expected from Fitz and Mo on the travails to the Peak. But your correspondent and company: Who wrote th

'WESTMORLAND. O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work to-day! KING. What's he that wishes so? My cousin, Westmorland? No, my fair cousin; If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more methinks would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmorland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his pur

Sunday 19th March 2017. Larks, Fitzs, Porter (who should be portering our bikes) and El Kimbros - RYCT 9am. Fivecast: 30 degrees. Blue sunny sky. Windy as the gates of hell. Initial plan was conquer the Tasman Bridge - over the Lake Illawarra - establish whether Captain Pelk was pissed. But the wind was deemed too strong. Group decision making: democracy: but laced with courtesy: Porter recommends the Queens Domain. Very fitting. So we aim for the start of the bike track then to divert past the Tattersalls or some bloody marketing story Swimming Pool. When we get there, more democratic last minute adjustments to the agenda, and instead, take to the right, and ride the lower grade (in once sense) path past Government House. The gates we shut, to give Her Majesty some peace on Sunday morning (all those canapes, all those gins and tonix).  Past also, unnoticed almost, the Beaumaris Zoo. Where the last Tasmanian Tiger in captivity resided. If an animal in a zoo resides anywhere. U