Le Tour De Yorkshire

Le Tour De Yorkshire (the first stages of the 2014 Tour de France are to be in God’s Own Country)

Welcome, you fine lads and lasses,

I’m sure you’ve heard the wonderful news,

Yorkshire’s to host Tour de France at t’kick-off,

For a better place’d be impossible to choose.

You see we’ve the most wonderful scenery,

Hills, dales and rivers, all in great bounty.

You’ll never find any finer spot,

As you know - this is God’s Own County.

But there’s long been an association,

Between Yorkshire and France that’s little known,

And several examples can be given,

To illustrate how this has all grown.

Leeds was where Emile Zola learned about whippets,

And Rimbaud found his taste for Fish and Chips.

Whilst they were always fans, of smoking Gitanes,

‘T’were a pint of Tetleys always came to their lips.

Bradford is the crème de la crème;

If a great night out you’re wanting to wangle;

That’s where Inspector Maigret came to terms,

With the mysteries of The Rhubarb Triangle.

And Castleford’s industrial landscape,

Should not bring to your mind any fatigue:

For it’s where Simone de Beauvoir,

Learned all she ever knew about Rugby League.

Any road, it’s on later this year yet,

So you’ve plenty of time to wet your lips,

And, just for you keen cycling types,
I’ve got the chance to give you some tips.

For this place is different from what you’d expect,

You’ll find that your team, needs a special regime,

Of training, of fitness and of diet,

If winning an early stage is part of your dream.

For a start, there’s plenty of hills,

The climbs are dotted with plenty of pubs -

Even Lance Armstrong’d need more than drugs,

To get to the top of The Buttertubs!

Then, as Le Tour, goes over The Moor,

A route that’ll make le peloton weep,

There’s nothing as far as the eye can see,

Only occasionally dotted with sheep.

They won’t be so jaunty, when they reach Bronte country,

As through the Swale they’re forced to paddle,

It won’t be sedate, riding through Harrogate,

They’ll need liniment to rub in the saddle.

When at Betty’s café they’re taking their teas,

They’ll feel themselves go weak at the knees

As the treacle tarts harden their arteries,

To say nowt of the pies with mushy peas.

And when they’re full right up,

And just want to tend to their bunions,

It’ll be time for t’second course –

A nice big plate of tripe and onions!

With their gold medals, and pairs of pedals,

Even Wiggins and Cavendish on their bikes,

Will take a beating; they won’t be cheating,

As they struggle to master the Tykes!

The stars, followed by cars, riding the handle-bars,

Won’t hear the crowds shout “Thank-you!”

But “Come on, you great bunch of jessies!”

Or it’s “bonsoir et merci beaucoup!”

For cycling can seem like a daft sport,

With blokes in the heather, riding hell for leather

Going all way up t’hills, only to come back down,

Just to enjoy Yorkshire’s famous sunny weather.

I don’t know what I’ll do, when they all whizz through,

When the flash of the riders is rapid and furzy,

I hope it entails, that a man from the Dales,

Finally pulls on that yellow jersey.

And when we have to wave good-bye to the Tour,

When we’ve knackered ‘em after the first week,

We’ll be glad that the garcons, have finally gone,

But had the sense to make a choix sympathetique.

I hope we’ll have led them a merry dance,

Those sturdy Belgian and Gallic chaps -

I’m not sure how they’re getting back over to France,

Cycling round the decks of the ferry perhaps?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014