Tour de Langkawi: So much to tell… it's been ages since I wrote hasn't it? It's 'cause I've been so, so busy. Not because I've been lazy or anything. No sir. Not me.

It's the end of February now. I've got my new bachelor pad (when Louise is away, that is) in Aussonne, just up the road from our HQ in Cornebarrieu, near Toulouse. My pal Wilderness Man drove down again in his scary blacked-out VW van piled high with our furniture, but I still had to shell out an arm-and-a-wallet at the handily placed Ikea.

John admires the view with the lads in a hotel somewhere in Malaysia

I had a bath this morning (look away now if you're squeamish) and checked on the progress of my right big toenail. It's all yellow now, and if you pull up on it, it flips up a bit, 'cause it's not attached properly on the sides anymore. There's also some pungent slimy stuff seeping out. I don't believe the thing is long for this world, to be quite honest with you. This disastrous situation was brought about by a remarkable chain of events that took place in Malaysia during the Tour of Langkawi.

Firstly, at a stage finish in Chikkybowow or some such place, all the team vehicles were ushered into an adjacent field. When I returned from collecting the boys on the other side of the finish line (I think Spence was on a random drug test or some other nuisance event), I was confronted by the sight of Louise chasing one of the numerous sherpas "helping" the teams from round the back of our van. The only words I caught were "You dirty b******!"

Enquiring politely as to what had upset my good lady, I was informed that she had discovered the recidivist emptying the contents of his bladder in the general direction of the back of our little soigneur's van, which was unsurprisingly open at the time. Seeing red, I marched after him, and rounding the corner was rewarded with the sight of the lil' feller carrying on his act at his own truck, the passenger door open to protect him from Joe Public, and his back towards me. Such an enticing prospect was too good to miss, and I paused to carefully measure the ten or so strides separating us with Rob Andrew-like precision. I then began my run up, increasing pace with an economy of effort reminiscent of the late Malcolm Marshall at his most lethal, before unleashing a drop kick Pat Jennings would have been proud of, directed neatly and accurately into the miscreant's rear cleft. Bullseye.

John drives the team car on a stage of the Tour de Langkawi

He yowled in a manner I haven't heard since Jerry last dropped a scolding iron on the white bit of Tom's tail, causing it to turn a pulsating scarlet. This sound mutated into a high-pitched "Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry" that would have made Mariah Carey wince. I proceeded to give him the benefit of some of my wisdom concerning the ill-advised nature of his actions, then turned on my heel to march away in an aloof yet menacing manner. This was made tricky, however, by the sudden realisation that I had probably broken my big toe, and the one next to it too ("Ah yes, that was the point of this story" - Mr Reader). Whether that was in the original long backlift boot or the subsequent attempt to wrestle my foot free of his bony crack I am unsure, but the damage had been done.

Act two took place on the day after the race finished. With a free day to go shopping in Kuala Lumpur, we spent the afternoon in various emporiums around the capital. Among other things, we bought ourselves a new football, later stolen by some Italians desperate to exhibit their silky skills. Or diving around near penalty areas as if struck by some mysterious Mostar sniper on top of the East Stand. (Note to self: don't play head-tennis with Eddie Wegelius again whilst wearing your Oakleys on your forehead. You prat.)

The big game itself took place on the top deck of a car park in Shah Alam. Our ranks were swelled by the appearance of two Italian soigneurs and the King of Slick, former British Champion Tim Harris. In time-honoured fashion, it was skins against shirts. What was that Mr Reader? Of course I was playing for shirts, you don't think I'd go topless in public do you? Wood and Walters man, there were women and children present!

Thanks to the Harrismeister, who still displayed a deft touch in front of goal, plus a speculative long-range effort from yours truly that sailed into the roof of the imaginary net between the two Evian bottles, we ran out comfortable winners. However, for much of the previous half hour, I had been anything but comfortable. Firstly, I had spent most of it blowing out of my wrong end chasing Cel Lillywhite and Lego Lambert all round the tarmac, and secondly, my already well-pummelled foot was feeling like it belonged to somebody trapped in a rubbish muncher without R2-D2 at the controls. (Don't even bother Mr Reader.)

So as a consequence, I'm back in the bathroom in Aussonne peering with distaste at something that won't be a part of me for much longer. And why do French bathrooms have two sinks in them? What do they think I'm going to do in the bathroom?

Ciao for now cycling fans.

Oh, and Mr Reader, I believe I've seen some interesting pictures of your wife. (Think about it.)