Hello campers, I'm back again with another tale of drudgery and dudgeon at McCartney Towers.

We're firmly ensconced in our new Service de Course, or industrial unit, as it would be known if it were in Droitwich rather than Toulouse. It's a little way out to the north west of town in a very nice place called Cornebarrieu, which boasts a "Pizza Emporter" caravan and a pub. Keith Lambert could start up a lovely little business on the side down here, him and Margaret knocking out a few stuffed crusts in the kitchenette of their little two-berth. The Biere Akademie, as the pub is known, has a large British clientele as it is a favourite watering hole with the British Aerospace employees at nearby Blagnac. They've quickly mastered the art of rustling up an omelette without jambon or sausage, or fois gras, or chicken liver. They still think we're peculiar, but I'd rather be peculiar than cut into a fluffy mixed up plate of eggs and see some of that looking out at me. Wood and Walters.

My house is in Aussonne, just down the road. The dead Beetle (the car, not John Lennon) is in the garage waiting for a nouveau moteur, and I've measured up a tree in the garden to hang my hammock from. I've got a new pet too, Lenny the tortoise. Julian rescued him from a crunchy death on the road to his house, and was going to keep him for the kids. Malheuresement, Dino the Doberman invented a new game of "Flip the Tortoise," so Lenny's with me now. He wedges himself head first into the corner of the sunlounge and doesn't do a lot. Except snore. Loudly.

Matt Stephens has moved into the end room of my bungalow, but I hardly ever see him. He's either racing or sneaking back to Crewe in a vain attempt to satisfy his unquenchable lust for Andrea. Ciaran and Lisa have been living there too, waiting for the interminable French red-tape to be cut away before they can move into their new place. So I'm surrounded by young lovers, which is a right pain in the arse when you're in the middle of splitting up with your wife. Yes, I'm afraid it's true, your favourite soigneur pin-up Louise has headed back to the Old Country, 'cause she's had enough of the constant womanising, drinking and beatings. She's got to change her ways.

I managed to catch up with a lot of old friends when we went up to Belgium for some racing last week. At Gent-Wevelgem, Ian and Jason were there from Sigma Sport, trying to coax me into my old beer drinking habits. Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen were there on a jolly with World Cycling Productions, running a sightseeing weekend for some American fans. "What the **** are you doing here Deering?" demanded the foul-mouthed Channel 4 superstar. I hope he was joshing. Honestly, there would be a few upset TV viewers if they knew what goes on when Phil and Paul go on one of their week long drinking, fighting and whoring binges. Anyway, they were quite laid back this time, despatching their paying guests on to the waiting coach, then retiring to a café for the duration of the race.

When we got to the feed it was so windy I couldn't get the door of the Espace open. Bjornar came past in the company of Andrea Tafi, the two of them well clear of the bunch which was starting to split up. I was with Jeremy Whittle from Procycling and a couple of great guys from Giro helmets' Belgian distributors. We yelled our heads off for Bjornar, but the wind whipped the words from our throats. Spence climbed off with Michele Bartoli, absolutely shattered after being caught in the wrong group when it split.

"I was doing 60kmh, my heart rate was on 180, and they were going away. I couldn't believe it," said the team tri-hard. Talking of tri-hards, The Sigma Sport boys tell me that it looks like they'll have two guys in the Great Britain Olympic Triathlon Team now, Andrew Johns and Tim Don. Tim has got a famous Dad too - Philip Don, who is in charge of all the Football Association's referees, predictably known to all Tim's friends as the "W***er in the Black". I bet he'd have a few words to say about that swafty looking tosspot who refereed (I use the term loosely) the second-leg of the Chelsea Barcelona tie. Tim is apparently basing his training for Sydney around a bizarre theory which involves growing a ginormous Shaft "Kinky Afro" in the manner of a 12 year-old Michael Jackson or that midget who used to be in The Stylistics. We think the idea is that he will shave his head on the eve of the race and thus fly along with his new drag co-efficient skull. By then he will probably have the world's strongest neck muscles.

Back at Gent-Wevelgem, Max made the front group, but got spat as they went up the absolutely horrible Kemmelberg for the second time. He and Jann Kirsipuu were absolutely whacked, and they rode together after that. Sean called me from the race car on the radio and said: "I'm in behind Max and Kirsipuu, and they've been caught by two tourists with panniers and everything. That would be bad enough, but (and I swear this is what he said) one of them's only got one leg!" Max packed and got in the car when the Half-Bader came past him, mudguards and all.

I went to Andorra for a day out with Lisa while Ciaran was at Settimana Bergamasca this weekend (can't fault me for effort can you?) and on the way back we saw Julian's car parked outside the McDonalds at Foix. Sensing the opportunity to blackmail my way to a huge pay rise and a couple of months holiday, I snuck in and up to his table with a resounding Alan Partridge "Ah-ha!"

Imagine my dismay when I found the goody-goody git tucking into a McSalad! Doh!

To round up something I was telling you about last time, I shook my duvet out the other morning during my usual conscientious daily cleaning routine, and there it was looking up at me from the bed: the toenail has decided to go it alone.

'Til next time,
A bientot,
John