Diplomat

Scribe didn't get off to a good start with this smart-arse.  For no earthly reason, Scribe's weekly group e-mail, albeit properly addressed to michaelwilson1@froggy.com.au , would return with an 'unable to deliver' warning. 

A resolute Scribe patiently attempted to fix the problem. 

After re-editing the same address, Scribe managed to cajole Diplomat's pernickety 'e-mail service provider' with the dubious label of 'froggy' to accept a weekly group e-mail, whereupon a smart aleck Diplomat retorted with a note:

After checking that Scribe's e-mail transmission was clearly addressed to that pedantic froggy provider, in desperation, Scribe again e-mailed the insouciant Michael, asking him to send his 'phone number to discuss the cyberspace impasse, and regrettably rec'd the following irreverent comeback.

"Dear Mr  Johnston,
In regards to your request for a 'phone contact number, I feel that I am not aptly qualified to assist you, even though I have sorted many people out in the past, but I believe you are likely be beyond my help.  On the few occasions that I have observed you over the past few months it is clear you require urgent long-term assistance.  However, if you so wish I would only be to happy to supply several help line 'phone contacts if you need someone to talk to. 
Yours sincerely, 
Michael Wilson
(Cyclist Extraordinaire)"

Such are the trials and tribulations of being a raconteur who has to deal with irreverent dim wits.  One could be excused for pondering, "Who is The Diplomat?"  Little wonder a sarcastic interpretation of Diplomacy is "The art of saying 'Nice doggie!' ... till you can find a rock."  Where is the rock?  And is it a big one?  'cause this turkey can't take the hint from cordial rhetoric.  Perhaps in an earlier life Mike has been up-against less amenable dudes that Bank Teller.

Below is an extract from Waratah Veterans' Cycle Club newsletter tempo # 9 dated 24 June 2004

Rider of the week - Michael "The Diplomat" Wilson Michael was born in the Summer of ‘45 in the Old Dart.  Winston Churchill immediately resigned as prime minister and the USA dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima.  Michael tends to have that effect on people.  When he came to Australia in ‘66 we reacted by switching to decimal currency and raising our hemlines.  Michael’s formative years were spent playing competitive lacrosse (la quoi dahling?), boxing and gymnastics, which somehow translated into Audax riding and swimming for the  Seven Hills RSL Club where he excelled in the 50 metre free-style.  Forced to give it up through excessive consumption of alcohol he naturally gravitated to the Waratah Vets in 1980 where he rose to A grade within six months.  Mike is currently a relaxed B grader and the Grade Captain (not Dave South as misreported in last week’s tempo).  The nickname?  Given to him by the Muggaccinos  (riders from the northside) in recognition of his great bedside manner.

Rider of the Week  -  Michael (“Diplomat”) Wilson
There is a part of England that belongs to another planet. The inhabitants speak an alien tongue, a rich fruity argot laced with acrimonious invective. The beer they brew there is strong and so are the women. The men, on the other hand, are not but hide the fact behind a facade of offensive bluster.
None of this has anything to do with Michael of course. Sure he was born there and looks and sounds exactly like one of them but underneath that rough Geordie exterior lies several rough layers before you unearth the gentle soul within.
Mike was born in the Summer of ‘45. Winston Churchill immediately resigned as prime minister and the Yanks resorted to WMDs against Japan. Mike does tend to have that effect on people. When he came to Australia in ‘66 we reacted by switching to decimal currency and raising our hemlines.
The true nature of our hero came to the fore in his formative years when he played competitive lacrosse (yes people really do play it) and had to resort to boxing, gymnastics and Audax cycling to ward off the taunts of his contemporaries. But Mike was a swimmer at heart. His natural attributes and tadpole shape produced a formidable 50 metre freestyle champion and he spent many halcyon years competing for the Seven Hills RSL Club and consuming excessive amounts of alcohol.
Faced with imminent death from overindulgence he cast around for another outlet for his peculiar attributes and settled on the LAPD Triathlon Club. It was a natural fit and he was able to help the members, particularly the young women, develop their skills and stamina, usually by talking them to death.
Six years ago failing eyesight and the scent of Tooheys Old brought him to the Waratahs where he still had sufficient residual fitness to make A grade (they were much slower in those days).
Now you have to understand Mike. On the surface he’s your normal in-your-face abusive roadie with a loud voice and clothing to match. His rudeness is legendary and has earned him the nickname “Diplomat” for his subtle negotiating skills. But it’s all a front. Underneath beats a generous heart beset by the fears that terrorize us all: mortality; poverty; enlarged prostate; deflated libido; deflated tyres.
But, hold the presses! Mike has a new lease of life. No it’s not a French mistress (or it might be), nor yet the little blue pill that elevates but does not inebriate. No, the boy’s on a winning streak and nothing succeeds like success. It’s a slimmer, more determined Michael that’s heading up the pointy end of C grade these days.
Good luck to you son!
And has his new found fortune softened his abrasive manner by basking in the limelight, thus engendering a warm feeling of camaraderie towards his fellow man--and woman?
No.

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