ROYAL ASCENT

“I hereby knight you as Sir… wait, what’s your name?” says one of eight English knights to a kneeling Dutchman, a deflated plastic sword resting against his shoulder. His wife – knighted as a Dame just moments before – stands by, blushing with pride.

Just behind the ceremony taking place on Alpe d’Huez, Rob, one of the Beefeaters (see box on p30) responsible for all this, turns to his co-conspirator Steve and, gesturing to another reveller in fancy dress, says: “We need to get rid of the giant inflatable penis.” It’s quite the regal atmosphere.

I’ve somehow managed, after 16 consecutive days at the Tour de France, to persuade – whose car I’ve just screamed at and banged on like a monkey at a safari – that I should skip a day of reporting and join