"I wish you'd let me be at the front," protested The Scribbler as he and Thelma Gusset (pronounced "Gussay") dismounted from their newly-acquired tandem and prepared to chain it to the railings outside the Boilermaker's Arms.

"No," declared Thelma. "I need to be able to see where I'm going. It's claustrophobic at the back, trapped there just looking at your behind. If I travel at the front, you're taller than me so you can see over me."

The Scribbler didn't like to admit to her that it wasn't seeing over her or otherwise that made him want to change places. The truth was that he was rather unsettled by the sight of her Lycra-clad bottom immediately in front of him, undulating as she pedalled for mile after mile.

"As you wish," he sighed, wondering if his purchase of the tandem after the Austin Gearcruncher Mark 3 had to be scrapped had been such a good idea. Thelma, unhappy at first about such an unglamorous mode of transport, had changed her mind after a couple of test runs and had embraced cycling enthusiastically.

It was at her suggestion that they'd undertaken this Sunday ride to Harrogate, setting off in the morning sunshine and returning in a snowstorm as they got off and pushed the tandem up the steepest section of Pool Bank.

The Scribbler had discovered that he wasn't as fit as he thought he was, probably as a result of too many pints of Old Enraptured Ragamuffin at the Boilermaker's over too many years. But old habits die hard, and it had been the vision of a foam-topped glass that had kept him going as they'd sped through the snow down the hill to Apperley Bridge and then slogged up Harrogate Road and into town.

"A pint of your finest, Boris, and a slimline tonic," he cried as the pair of them walked into the pub, two figures in skin-tight knee-length shorts, drenched caghoules and cycle helmets topped with a crust of snow. They headed for the bar and perched on a couple of stools.

"You're just in time," said the brightly-waistcoated Wilf the Woolman, now the pub's owner, as Boris the Landlord heaved on the pump. "We've got someone coming in for an audition. A turn. I want to put this pub in the spotlight, and music's going to be the way to do it."

"I thought you were moving!" said The Scribbler.

"Not yet," said Wilf, shaking his head. "We can't move until the Broadway development's built, if you recall. Then it's goodbye traditional boozer, hello bijou bar. But meanwhile I need to make more money. Hence the turns."

The Scribbler and Thelma pondered this news in silence, dripping gently on to the public bar's tiled floor.

The door opened and a great commotion burst in.

"We're supposed to doo-wop and then wah-wah," said a female voice.

"No, it's a wah-wah, a she-boom and then a double doo-wop," insisted another. Then: "Oooh, hello Mr Scribbler. Why are you in fancy dress?"

Your columnist turned to see Brenda and Glenda, Bradford's least-lovely twins, who cast off their duffel coats to reveal themselves clad in Spandex mini-dresses and green wellington boots.

"I might ask you the same," he said.

"We're backing singers," said Brenda (or Glenda).

"For Dirkus Thrust," added Glenda (or Brenda). "Him".

She gestured at the apparition who stood between them, wearing a Roman legionnaire's armour and flat cap. The Scribbler stared at the newcomer.

"It can't be!" he murmured. "Can it?"

The other man stared back at him. "I don't BELIEVE it!" he said.

To be continued.