Lance O'classic sat in Yorkshires finest dining establishment, he was not alone. Across the scratched formica table top, enjoying his breakfast of EPO, sunny side up, and devouring his fourth inhaler, sat Mr Froome. A gelatinous plate of tripe and mushy peas, looking forlorn in the glow of the paraffin lamp, sat untouched at his side.
"The coppers will collar that poor butler, leading them to the cursed Lord Drago, I have made sure of that," rasped O'classic.
"Now Froomey, me old mucker, will you join me in the outside toilet? I've got some pure MDMA in me cloak. I will inject it into your mouth, " he continued.
Froome's eyes lit up in anticipation.
"I've missed Yorkshire," he said.
"It's been so long since I had a bit of E by gum."
O'Classic allowed himself a half-smile, the plan was progressing nicely.