Bilbao Berets

Vello and David are in the departure lounge, waiting.

There they are! says David.

It's two minutes to seven. Gaius, Pierre-Louis and Terence have made it! 

Got your passports? asks Vello.

Curses upon curses! says Gaius. 

Fortunately, I thought of that, says Vello. Belle has them.

Belle appears with three takeaway coffees.

You made it! says Belle. Well done.

Guess what? says Terence.

I see what, says Belle. You've recovered your hat.

Hello, Belle, says Gaius. Did you pack up our bicycles?

Done, says Belle. And I got rid of the spiders.

In the circumstances, Gaius does not ask her how.

A muffled announcement: 'The flight to Doha has commenced boarding'.

What was that? asks Vello. It was muffled.

Boarding, says Belle. Come on. Call up your e-tickets. Let's go.

>>>>

Meanwhile in Bilbao.

Sweezus, Arthur and Ranger Roger (their new domestique) are enjoying the night life.

They are in a brightly lit cafe, wearing Basque berets, eating marmitaka and goxus, and drinking Basque wine.

Peter Sagan is at another table with a few of his team mates.

Mark Cavendish is at another, with his buddy Mark Renshaw.

Marx enters, followed by journalists, and photographers.

Who do you think will win this year's Tour? asks a journalist.

The last man standing, says Marx,

A hush falls.

Mark Cavendish and Peter Sagan look across at one another.

Marx! says Sweezus. Come and join us. 

Marx comes over.

You're commentating this year? asks Sweezus. 

I am, says Marx. The powers that be thought I'd bring a new perspective.

Yeah? Like what? asks Sweezus.

My views on competition, says Marx. 

What are they? asks Ranger Roger.

Who are you? asks Marx. 

Our new guy, says Sweezus. He's an all-rounder and an average poet.

Ranger Roger looks modest.

Very good, says Marx. By the way, has Team Philosophe turned up yet?

Arriving early next morning, says Sweezus. They'll be totally knackered. But that's good for us.

I see you were in the preliminary ride through Bilbao, says Marx. Nice berets. Especially yours, Arthur.

Arthur adjusts his nice beret and wipes tuna bouillabaisse from his chin, 

And a blob of custard cake from the rim of his wine glass.

Competition? says Arthur.

Marx assumes he is asking him to answer Ranger Roger's question.

Essential, says Marx.

Good? asks Arthur.

Bad, says Marx. The principle is the negation of itself.

Marx may well be correct.

But it's the start of the Tour, and no one is in a mood to even try and puzzle it out.