This seems a little insensitive, given that it is nearly the 50th anniversary of the great uprising instigated by Dame Edith Hattingley-Snipe's early adoption of the garment sportif that had, until then, been heartily discouraged by the League.

So far the Sorority Belles have proven quite intractable on the issue, not one of them convinced that the case has, in fact, been proven regarding the necessity of a Vice Chairman. Given the particular propensities of the acting Club Secretary — a pointy-eared pixie by the name of Chuffy — an additional position in charge of matters regarding carnality, corruption, debasement, debauchery, degeneracy, depravity, indecency, lechery, lewdness, libidinousness, licentiousness, perversion, profligacy and venality (listed alphabetically in the Club Rule Book) appears, to most of the Belles anyway, to be over-egging the pudding somewhat.

The gentlemen continue to publicise their suitability for the position and call for a referendum. A5 sized posters verging on the very boundaries of taste and decency have begun to appear throughout the Cake Stop Bar and Grill. They have even started appearing in the quiet and hallowed halls of the Club, despite the efforts of Jarvis to keep the place respectable. The poor man is swiftly running out of bromide.

In the meantime, being more concerned with matters of a vehicular nature, the Aquatic Fowl on Bikes Society have held the inaugural meeting of 'Safebooze', a campaign for genuine road safety.

Safe Booze believes absolutely in enhanced road safety. We do not campaign against blood alcohol limits or alcohol limit enforcement. We are not anti-police. We are not "pro-drinking".

We believe that too much blood alcohol limit enforcement by unthinking automatons makes the roads very much more dangerous.

We believe that publicising incorrect safety mantras to motorists is hazardous. "Alcohol kills" lacks any useful meaning and is perilously deceptive.

We believe that inappropriate alcohol for the conditions is an essential road safety issue that is made worse by too much emphasis on blood alcohol limit compliance.

We believe that reducing the numbers of skilled traffic constables presents increased risks.

We believe that the Government, the licence trade and their publicans are conspiring to mislead the public about the nature of road dangers in a blatant conspiracy of malice aforethought.

We do not recommend or condone breaking road traffic laws unless it is obvious to the trained eye that it is perfectly safe to do so, in which case any judge will agree with you because you are, of course, an experienced expert.

This is proving very popular, and there has been some undercurrent of suggestion that they should get some wristbands made in a suitably lurid colour, perhaps creme de menthe, so that people can show their support for the movement.

Elsewhere there has also been the founding of the Cake Stop Bar and Grill Mutual Appreciation Society, where all and sundry have been declaring their respect and fondness for one another. Only once has there been a conflation of SafeBooze and MAS meetings, at which there were many wobbly cyclists slurring "I love you. You... You're my besht mate, you are." More than one member of the League was left, the next morning, feeling that he had possibly said something untoward to a rather slender young lady with a strange hairstyle. The Sorority Belles, who had managed to maintain rather more decorum — unusually for them — refrained from mentioning the strangely mesmerising effect that the hatstand had appeared to develop over the course of the evening, and swore Jarvis to silence in a gallant attempt to protect certain egoes from injury.

This fine morning sees the dawn of Valentine's Day. AndyGates is doing his best impersonation of Sir Lancelot Spratt in one corner, where he is being kept company by a number of League members whose declaration of disinterest in all things romantic can only be taken as a sign that they are not getting a satisfactory degree of intimate quality time with the fairer sex. The discussion regarding the Race Across America, and the failure of the man from the British Broadcasting Corporation even to make it as far as the start line, is still burbling away in a Zone 1 fashion. The condemnation of a children's television character by the unlikely name of Sponge Bob Square Pants (he's a sponge that's also a sponge) is also achieving some hilarity. The assertion that viewing a small, yellow, cuboid colonial carries the risk of turning one into the sort of person who bats for the other side is being treated with the startled bemusement it so richly deserves.

All in all, despite the horrific weather that has seen many cyclists cowering indoors, and those who ventured out blinded by winds and hail and thunderstorms, it is an affably peaceful sort of day. Even the flurry of youngsters, speaking the strange language of "Txt" and seeking the ever-elusive and mythical free Livestrong band, appears to have died down. Other than the ominous, blackish purple cloud glowering over the Cake Stop, its lightning sparking around the spire of the Temple so brightly it can be seen through the windows even at this distance, the day seems quite pleasant.

A fine day, indeed, for port and cigars by the fire while the sun does its best to break through the tumultuous cloud and the bicycles huddle together for shelter outside in the eerie darkness.

"He asked for your address too?" Charlotte and Kathy are sitting at the end of the bar, having decided to take their technical discussion of undergarments away from the men, as it was evidently causing some of them to verge on apoplexy. "Did he say what for?"

"I didn't think to ask," Kathy tells her heroic chum. "It was late, and I was tired. Tim and I had just returned from Devon. Ravenbait brought Frood and Munky out to the pub, you know."

"So Frood is real, then?"

"Oh yes. Did you doubt it?"

"Well. He wasn't at last year's Dun Run, was he? He has never been here, although I did hear that he knows the way. Where is Ravenbait, anyway?"

Kathy is just about to answer that she isn't sure when there is something of a commotion. It appears that a visiting motorist of the sort that occasionally rides a bike has become confused by the real intent of the Safe Booze project, and raised some objections.

"Oh good grief," Kathy says. "I thought we would be all right after Clare got rid of the cat."

She decides she needs to get closer, to have a better look. It does involve alcohol, after all, and it might be pertinent to the discussions regarding Vice Chairman's position. She is almost, but not quite, aware of the way the Gentlemen of the League are finding her even more fulsome and attractive than usual, and are staring at her quite openly, unable to help themselves.

As she approaches the scene of the scuffle she hears a strange sound, and the nearby metal window frame suddenly buckles. Glass, frame and all go flying outwards, leaving a hole in the wall. This causes less surprise than it probably should have done. It seems somehow... natural.

Wind takes advantage of the sudden ingress, swarming in and buffeting the cyclists. It is so strong it causes many of them to stagger, unbalanced on Look cleats. The clouds, in their bruised livery of purples, blacks and greens, press in towards the gap.

"Macleach, my good man, if you would be so kind. I do not think we need the likes of this penis- extension driving waste of air polluting our fine establishment," Cuddy says casually.

Macleach grins, a paradoxically solemn expression. With a sound of shuttering metal, he suddenly develops a titanium sheen. He picks up the poor unfortunate by the shirt collar with consummate ease.

"Zis is how we do things on Russian cycling team!" he declares, and throws the man through the ragged hole. There is a faint cry, whittled away into nothing by an angry mass of violent weather.

"What do you think you are doing?!" exclaims Nutty, horrified.

Cuddy makes an expansive gesture. "There is a war coming, old friend," he says. As he speaks the window comes sailing back, unaffected by the howling wind, and inserts itself in the gap it left in the wall. Slivers of metal peel from the frame, creating spikes that drive into the walls, holding the window in place. "We cannot keep fighting for your ideals. They are killing us. Have you ever heard of a cyclist killing a driver? No. They slaughter us in our thousands, because we don't have armour with which to defend ourselves. We do nothing." His lip curls in a sneer. "They force us off the roads onto paths. They cause us to fight amongst ourselves. They take over the space that is rightfully ours and kill indiscriminately, yet somehow it is our fault."

He leans over and puts his hands on the table before him. His eyes are cold and murderous. "I have had enough. I can see it all now. It became so clear when that factitious feline was here. Her incessant meowling and the absurdity of her comments made it quite clear that what we are facing is no less than unrelenting recidivism. It is time to put an end to it, old friend. It is time for us to stand together against the plague that is Homo sapiens automotivus."

"That isn't the way," Nutty says. "The sins of the few are insufficient reason to condemn the majority. Most drivers are good people. They simply require better education."

"And what has the education mantra achieved to date, Nutty? What has it achieved? Has it rid us of the Chavs in their Vauxhall Novas, or the Toyota Freelanders that have only ever been as far off-road as the grassy verge by the primary school? Has it rid us of the business executives driving 1 mile to the gym in their silver Lexus saloons, just so they can spend twenty minutes on the treadmill? I wager that you could pick any driver from the street, a random stranger, and ask him any question from the Highway Code. He would not know the answer. Education has not stopped the rot of institutionalised speeding. Education does not work. It is time to fight back. And if you won't stand with me, Nutty, you will stand against me. That is what the rest of so-called humanity has done to us."

"Cuddy..."

The leader of the Aquatic Fowl on Bikes Society has a feverish glint in his eye, and yet that same eye still contains the hyper-intelligent clarity it has always had. He turns to the other cyclists standing with him. The Pingus, PW, Macleach, the Roman, Striker, TooMuchCake, Rjevans6 and PhilMalcolm all have vaguely disdainful expressions on their faces, as if they consider the others somehow weaker for not taking that final stand.

"Come my human powered brethren," Cuddy says. "We shall go elsewhere to plan our campaign."

"Cuddy, wait..." Nutty tries to stop him. "At least wait until the weather has cleared."

"What weather?" Cuddy asks mildly, throwing open the door.

The sky has cleared. It is a beautiful day in early spring. Cuddy Duck strolls out into the bike park, and the Human Powered Brethren unlock their cycles.

"Are you sure you won't reconsider, Nutty?" he asks one final time.

Nutty shakes his head. "You know I can't. This is wrong. Drivers are only people too, Cuddy."

"We shall see," Cuddy says, and he leads his pack away.