Only twats ride with worn cleats

By chance I met Clive on Tuesday. I had a pick-up at a large, prestigious office block in EC3 that I vaguely remembered being the one where he worked.
Anyway, I arrived a little early and was waiting outside. The weather had picked up, the rain had moved on and the clouds were breaking so I decided to have a little wander. Soon I found myself at the rear of the building, much less salubrious, no wheeler-dealers or power brokers back there. And as I turned the corner I saw something I will never, ever forget. It was Clive, dressed in a suit that had seen better days and elbow deep in a litter bin.
I stopped dead in my tracks and what I saw next....well, you see some sad sites if you ride round this town for long enough but to see this once mighty legal Titan fish out a half eaten burger from that bin and press it to his mouth like a starving baboon.... it beggared belief. And beggar, I am sorry to have to tell you all, is the operative word.
To cut a long story short, and it took several hours and more than one bottle of Turpentine before I got to the truth, Clive has been living rough for nearly a year now. A victim of the recession but too proud, like a Japanese salaryman, to admit it, somehow, through pure dogged determination or base animal cunning, he has been able to keep up the pretense of normality to us all. Making his home in doorways and doss houses, living off what he can find or beg or, I am heartbroken to say, what he can steal, Clive has been eeking out an existence that few of us can imagine. And all the while turning up to cycling events as if nothing had changed. His only possessions are his bikes and some Lycra, the last vestiges of a once proud and prosperous life now tattered and torn. It has taken Herculean willpower for Clive to keep up this charade and is, I think, a most touching tribute to his love of cycling.
Clive has been posting from Internet cafes whenever he has been able to though when you smell quite that rancid and when you have to panhandle for every penny that is not easy. The story of the worn cleat and the consequent hospital visits has been one Clive has constructed in order to provide a convincing cover story for those times when he has - and again it is heartbreaking to report this - had to spend a night in the cells. Or those times when he has simply been too strung out on whatever industrial solvent has got him through another day on the street.
So what can we do? What, as a forum, as friends, as fellow cyclists can we do to help this fallen father-figure? I don't know, there is no easy answer. Many of you might well say, after all, he was a corporate lawyer so really, who cares? And you might well be right in your view. But surely the quality of mercy is not strained but droppeth as the gentle lymph from heaven?
If you wish to help Clive then please let me know. I am sure that together we can help restore some dignity, some hope and some purpose to his life. If you merely wish to go and poke fun at him he can be found behind the Aldgate McDonalds most mornings pissing his pants and swearing at the street sweepers.
Thankyou and goodnight