Lance the boil

I hate Lance Armstrong. I used to love Lance Armstrong. I don't hate him so much for the whole drugs thing; it was an age when every single, sodding one of them pumped some shit into their veins whether they knew it or not.

No. What I really hate about Lance Armstrong is that he fooled me. Completely bamboozled. I cannot for the life of me believe how I watched him year after year. High cadence peddling to the top of every Col and me thinking he was really clean, despite what the detractors said.

The cancer charity philanthropist blazed across my screen like a meteorite entering the atmosphere. I watched his competitors trailing in his wake. Ulrich, Landis, Hamilton. My suspicious eye looking them up and down thinking 'surely a drugs cheat'.  But my Lance? Not a chance Lance.

The boil turns up on Opera Wonfrey this week. The man is a consummate actor having graduated from the  PD school of drama and psychopathy. He will wear his face full of regret mask and talk about how he was pressured; it was out of his control; he was depressed, bi-polar and schizophrenic with a sex, alcohol, gambling and caring addiction. How he was just a pawn in the game.

The audience will be shocked, they will shed a tear, applaud his honesty and think to themselves, 'but he has done so much good'.

And the boil will rise from his seat. Wonfrey will stroke his arm and thank him oh so sincerely. He will turn and walk, chastened from the stage. As he gives a last humble wave of acknowledgement he will hold his gaze firmly on the wings. The applause will begin to subside and he will look at his agent with the subtlest wink.

Lance will feel clean.