It’s funny what goes through your head at 3am when you’re woken by a cat. Especially if that cat’s name is Lars, and he was named after the Metallica drummer (not by me, he’s my VMH’s cat). I prefer to call him Jan though, as Jan has always been my favourite Ullrich. So last night Lars woke me up, and unable to get back to sleep I got to thinking: who really is the most awesome Ullrich, and what kind of battles would Jan and Lars have to fight out to win naming rights for a cat? It’s a complex place, my brain at 3am.

We know that these consumate professionals put maximum effort into their chosen fields of expertise. And that they probably put a lot of substance in, too. Jan was always on the job for much longer than Lars; I’ve never heard of Metallica doing six hour gigs without a break between songs, for three weeks at a time. And how hard can drumming really be? I reckon Lars is faking it. And his shirt’s still buttoned. Inhaling a Wasp: Jan wins.

Oh, how the mistakes of your past catch up with you. The innocence and exuberance of youth can manifest itself in ways we later look back on and shudder with that sinking feeling of “what was I thinking?” But a good mullet outdoes a bad perm/highlight any day. Lars wins (or loses).

Who doesn’t love a bit of adulation? It might seem like Lars has a bigger captive audience here, but I bet Jan passed a hundred thousand fans on his way to the line that day alone. None of them had to pay $150 for the privilege either. Do I even need to mention how badass that jersey is? And who gives their fans the middle finger? Jan wins, and wins big.

Fame and fortune can trump ordinary looks in a heartbeat. And when it comes to stepping out on the red carpet, having a beautiful woman on your arm is mandatory. Both our heroes have done exceptionally well for themselves in the wife stakes, though Jan made sure he had the height advantage. I don’t think Lars will be complaining though. Let’s call it a draw.

We like to party, party! Jan doesn’t mind putting away a few pints in the off season, and when he’s sufficiently lubed, well, sometimes things can get out of hand. I mean, who hasn’t been to Oktoberfest, dressed in ridiculous shorts, puffy shirts and flowery braces, downed a dozen Schofferhofers, dropped a couple of tabs then driven the Porsche into a bike rack? Lars, on the other hand, just couldn’t keep up the pace and ended up in rehab on a diet of chocolate milk shakes… and he couldn’t even keep them down. Rock and Roll my arse. Jan wins.

And then there’s this…