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HOLD THE BACK PAGE:THE DISPROPORTIONATE lengths to which some newspapers go to get stories sets you guessing who the fraudsters and hypocrites are.
England rugby captain Lawrence Dallaglio was caught in a sting in 1999 after saying he was involved in drugs dealing (nine years previously). It was stupid hubris. He thought admission would make him more credible. Bang went the England captaincy.
John Higgins was entrapped by the same paper. Journalists had set up a convincing website which indicated the snooker player was talking to a subsidiary of Russia’s largest private commercial bank, Alfa Equity. Higgins and his sport are now in troubled waters over him accepting, in principle, a bribe from a journalist (he didn’t bet). Telling elaborate lies in the hope of getting truths or lies back seems duplicitously unreliable.
Sometimes the journalists are the hypocrites. Often they get found out. And to get found out takes a certain amount of arrogance, enough at least to blindly wade in at the bar and tell Darach McQuaid that Lance Armstrong isn’t credible.
Darach comes from a highly-respected cycling family. He is the project director of the Tour of Ireland. Intelligent, articulate and knowing what he’s talking about, he holds the three things that would usually trigger a retreat from such a sweeping statement.
You say the petulance of the riders when the drug scandals broke in the 1990s was outrageous. He says everything has changed. You say you don’t believe in Armstrong’s innocence. He says he’s never tested positive. You say cycling can’t be trusted. He says cycling is the cleanest sport in the world now. You try to remember the name of a cycling world champion who tested positive but can’t. He says you don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s right. That’s journalistic arrogance.
Then he says he’s got a bike for sale that Armstrong owned, that he’s going to put it on eBay but he’s willing to part with it for a decent price despite you dancing on Armstrong’s career. You think about it. Riding around Dublin on a Lance Armstrong bike. Jeez, that’s like a rugby wag walking into Krystle night club in Manolo Blahnik shoes, or, Uma Thurman stumbling on a Hattori Hanzo sword. Cool. Nice. You ask is Lance Armstrong written large on the frame so everyone can see it.
You ask Darach what Lance is like personally. He’s says he’s a lovely fella, busy, real busy.
Lance Armstrong’s bike cutting through the Dublin traffic. Cool. Nice. Darach tells you how light it is. You ask will it break in half on a manhole cover. He says it’s super strong. You ask about the saddle – might it be bad for a gentleman who wishes to settle on a large family. Trying his patience you empty your entire cycling information locker on his head. He tells you the wheel size and frame spec. You ask him what colour it is.
Darach knows Armstrong, likes Armstrong, respects Armstrong. But for an hour you consider buying a bike simply because Armstrong once rode it, a rider you’ve publicly insulted, denigrated and disbelieved. But the kudos is irresistible. Never mind his cancer battle, your backside would be where the backside of a seven-times Tour de France winner once put his. You’ll happily dump on Armstrong because it’s a more conceited position to take in a pub conversation than loving Armstrong. But you’ll take his bike too. Hubris. That’s the hypocrisy. No need for a fake website. Perhaps Dallaglio and Higgins were momentarily swayed. We all are.
