So Lance Armstrong has finally had a gutful of being a clam.
The world’s most despised bloke on wheels has agreed to have his shell of silence prised open on international television by the confessional butter knife that is Oprah Winfrey, and the stinky decay that lies within promises to be eye-watering.
Or at least it should be.
Is there any way we can get a guarantee that this WILL be a confession? Any Dickie Wilkins-style entertainment gurus out there with a spoiler alert telling us Armstrong is actually going to fall on the needle and blurt the ugly truth? Can John Michael Howson’s flamboyant LA sleuthing for red carpet clangers extend to locating whether this brazen story of lies and Lycra ultimately ends in admittance?
It’s the least that the duped and disenchanted human race deserves after buying into all of these years of artificial glory and heroism.
I know for one, before I spend the coming days camped out next to my remote to ensure dibs on the plasma, that I’ll be seeking assurance that this nugget of highly anticipated television isn’t an hour of Armstrong regurgitating his delicately worded statements while Winfrey beats him with a feather duster.
Really, who wants to waste the coveted nighttime window of idiot box platinum watching rehearsed fraudulent pap? Who wants to subject themselves to another rendition of Armstrong’s recycled defence in the face of an Everest of evidence? Who really wants to have to watch the Oprah Winfrey Show?
I’m sure you see my point.
Seriously though, if he is fair dinkum about putting an end to looking like one of history’s greatest douchebags, does he really have any other option but to slump on that famous celebrity arse-grooved couch, reveal all to Oprah like she’s a sister from another mister and then sweetly cop the well-deserved double-barrelled backlash?
Armstrong has done plenty of shortsighted and spiteful things up to now, but even he can surely see that the writing on the wall now says it’s time to cut his losses with the plan to devote long-term to his porkies.
The fibs are so backed-up that they have formed an orderly queue. If his BS pedalling was a bike, the rubber would’ve disintegrated down to the rims by now and there would be sparks flying everywhere.
Shouldn’t he just take out the puncture repair kit and get to patching-up whatever remains of the tyres of life?
If he doesn’t want to glue the dark holes of deceit for the good of himself, or in an attempt to prevent further bicycle analogies that are painful in length, then at least do it for the long-suffering public. What we’ve had to endure thus far has required the stamina levels of a blood-replaced hill-climber.
Persisting through the superfluous usage of the words ‘alleged’ and ‘accused’. Being force-fed statements with finely omitted truths. Pyrenees-sized mountains of confessions from steroid-topped bikers. Comprehension of the fact that saints with charities aren’t immune from being rottenly evil dudes. And now possibly being made to watch a television programme that should only be viewed by the unemployed or those chucking sickies.
It has gone on too long, and now is the prime chance for Armstrong to make it stop by taking his medicine. Metaphorically though, Lance. Not through the thigh.
The winds of gossip are whispering that he is looking to have his image cleansed by owning up to the doping so he can eventually save face by partaking in triathlon once this all blows over. It’s a bizarre and downright self-centred motivation to finally surface from an underground shelter of atrocious jive talking, but at least the public will get some closure.
The days of cryptic dinner speeches and Tweets has come and gone long ago. It’s time for Armstrong to stop thinking of himself and spare a thought for those swimming in his bulldust.
I wonder if she will remember to check what ‘gifts’ Armstrong leaves under the seats for the studio audience?
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