(With apologies to PG Wodehouse)

Everything in life that’s any fun, as somebody wisely observed, is either immoral, illegal or fattening. The exception to this rule is, of course, the Tweed Run. So it was that Bunty and I hot-footed it down to Clerkenwell and that fine establishment, Bourne and Hollingsworth.

To find a man’s true character one has only go for a bike ride with him, and Bunty’s certainly shone through by the end of the day. It was one of those days you sometimes get in May when the sun beams, the birds toot, and there is a bracing tang in the air that sends the blood beetling briskly through the veins.