I had wanted to confine my rage to the FWCs – currently the most dangerous strain on the roads – but I fear that may be impossible: basically I loathe all London cyclists. Like the café-goers who sit out on our narrow pavements stoically sipping cappuccinos in a haze of toxic hydrocarbons, these people live in a fantasy world. To them, Leicester Square is the Piazza Navona and our dual carriageways the cobbled backstreets of the Last of the Summer Wine. Traffic signals don't apply to London cyclists, up there as they are on the moral high ground with their officially endorsed sense of righteousness. Sociologically, polls have shown that they tend to be a preening, upper-middle class bunch. They use words like "pootle," and cycle home "smashed" from the pub. If Marie-Antoinette were alive today, she'd have a bike – with a sweet little Cath Kidston basket.