Cuddles and tempers: Cadel Evans

So, who to root for now that Bradley Wiggins has sadly crashed out of the Tour de France? Why, Cadel Evans of course. A psychologist might describe the Australian as a ‘fascinating blend of personalities’, whilst calmly chalking something down on a clipboard and pressing a buzzer to summon colleagues in white coats.

Evans’ face looks like a Jedi combination of Luke Skywalker and Yoda, with bulging, amphibious eyes and an enormous dimpled chin. You could imagine him to be a sketched character in some Steve Jackson and Ian Livingstone futuristic-fantasy book; perhaps a crowned frog prince sitting on a toadstool offering you a magic potion. Possibly benign, but quite probably of wicked intent; if you offend him, he will somersault from his zen, cross-legged position and suddenly challenge you with published attributes of: Skill; 6, Stamina; 18, Luck; 2.

Before he opens his mouth, you’d be forgiven for expecting Evans to talk gruffly like Matthew Hayden, starting each sentence with a confrontational, chest-puffing ‘Look, mate…’ But Evans is curiously vulnerable with an effete and gentle voice that is cultured and continental, enriching his sentences with French-isms like pavé and flamme rouge whilst name-dropping mysterious ski-stations such as Super-Besse and Hautacam.

Evans declared himself physically unsuitable for all other Australian sports as a youngster, being a mere whipper-snapper, but this little mongrel can certainly bare his teeth. Particularly when his lapdog, Molly, is threatened.  Evans’ tiny pooch was inexplicably touring around France with him during the 2008 race, and the pair were safely on their way for cuddles and Steak Tartare in a tour caravan. Then a clod-hopping journalist got too close and Evans issued the immortal statement : ‘Step on my dog and I’lI cut your head off.’

His fellow countrymen may explain this away with the line that he is ‘not shy in coming forward’, as if he was a Cronulla scrum half, but Evans’ tantrums are more endearing and more dimensional. He may be capable of throwing water-bottles, cycling helmets and punches, but there is a slapped-glove nobility about his actions, a Marquis of Queensbury coda to his violence and a Barbara Cartland canine-under-arm flounciness to his hissy-fits.

If you are still not buying into the Evans mystique, there are two more facts that may sway you:

1. Evans lives in Switzerland, married to an Italian concert pianist, evoking the Alpine scenes of The Spy Who Loved Me. You could also picture him patrolling his villa, sipping a glass of Sangiovese to the searing strains of Vivaldi.

2. His great-grandfather is Welsh.

Sold.