This is the story of Dennis and the terrible bike pants. Tanya is driving, some distance behind Dennis. She doesn’t know his name but that’s neither here nor there. She watches him cycling up the road and is transfixed by his really, truly ugly cycling pants. They have a pattern on them, though Tanya isn’t exactly sure you can call it a pattern. It seems to be a series of muddled fluro splodges. It looks like someone has thrown up on them after a children’s party. Why don’t they come to me for fashion advice? she wonders, remembering an encounter with a pasty Irish boy called Fergus, who she had transformed from dork to pasty Irish devil. Dennis knows none of this, and as he cycles up the road just metres ahead of the 2002 model Barina in which Tanya is critiquing him, Dennis imagines himself to be pretty fetching, particularly because he knows she is probably right now reading the ghostly COOGEE across his bum where his Speedos show through the cycling pants. Mmmm. Look out ladies.

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Cannylass

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