Va va Fee-Fi-Faux pas Froome

Beware all English Gentlemen if watching Le Tour de France. Let me explain. Before the Breakaways, the Yellow Jersey, the Haribo Vert one and the Peloton come les freebies. It was the same when it went through Gravesend in 2007. Water, biscuits, hats, Madeleines etc. French all sorts in fact, the ones that the kids ask you to bring back. La lies le problem.

Being a cricketer and being accompanied by two very competitive ladies, one a netball coach the other a county badminton player (in their time) (Deuxieme picture) it was very difficult not to miss out. Not wishing to appear gauche I became aware that the mademoiselle on my right (Premier picture) was not gathering much at all thanks to my ability to take catches in the deep, the badminton lady's deft use of my landing net and the goal defence actions of my good lady wife intercepting everything that was on its way to any of the French Line up.

Two wrist bands whizzed past her en route to the landing net. Like every first slip I thought the first one was mine, made a lunge and palmed it onto the grass. Before the young lady could make a move our goal defence in one movement swooped, scooped and tossed the package into our rapidly filling keep net as if she were the goal shooter she always wanted to be.

I detected disappointment though not petulance as shown by some of the French Press with Froome's dominance. I passed the wrapper with the wristband inside to her. She took it with a nod but said nothing. She didn't need to. She wouldn't know the difference between a leg glance and an off drive but she'd have tasted the spirit in which cricket should be played to add to the entente of the cordial she was drinking and we were feeling since taking the shuttle sous La Manche or The English Channel as it should be called.

Her grandparents sitting behind her looked knowingly in my direction, though only fleetingly as their eyes and mine changed both their respective directions of gaze and focus as what appeared to be a sachet of butter like the sort you get on the ferry to go on your toast flew by. It was red and black like the wacky racing car from whence it came.

I don't know if it was Mutley or Penelope Pitstop but something whispered in my shell-like to say not to give this particular freebie to the girl. Maybe it was the vibes from the competitive ladies, maybe it was the sense of fair play with nothing given or nothing taken, except for wristbands. Play hard but play fair. Whatever it was that stiffened my resolve I give thanks to it.

It was only in the static caravan the following day that the cache was investigated. The turn your hand to anything ladies were cooking. We were having those delicious French sausages that you buy in France, mixed with the cochonon freebies. No artificial ingredients, no preservatives. Or so we thought. (See picture 2).

It turned out that the butter satchet that I almost gave to the mademoiselle contained a condom. Being our usual responsible mature selves we laughed like french drains as the badminton player inflated it and waved it over the goal defence's head. I couldn't resist. 'What flavour is it?' I asked. 'Cheese and Onion.' echoed the Cheeky Girls to peals of laughter. No I am not going to explain.