If the brand nazis at the IOC could see my eyes right now, I’d be thrown in the Tower of London, not to be released until Zara Phillips won gold in Rio. And that’s a big ‘if’. The rings around my eyes from staying up late watching this damned sports carnival are of Olympic proportions. My part of the world is 7 hours ahead of London, so when the interesting evening sessions are getting started in Stratford, witches are gathering for their covens here.
It’s ridiculous really. I’m watching handball. Water polo. Synchronised diving, for f*ck’s sake. I’m getting all jittery and excited when someone from Turkey is shooting clay pigeons. I’m commenting on the South Korean women’s archery outfit, umpiring the basketball from my armchair, wincing at the whacks when a gymnast nose plants on the tumbling mat and… well, no, I draw the line at watching soccer.
Meanwhile, at my own gym, I’m struggling to run 5km, lift a few measly kilograms, and last a full hour on the floor sweating my chubby little butt off. All while I’m glued to the Sony widescreen soaking up the wonder of the swimmers’ bodies, and wishing I looked like one of those divers, so the ladies – maybe even a chap or two – would swoon as I wandered past on the deck of the pool.
Fat chance right now. Fit chance coming soon.
These folks I’m watching play badminton, table tennis, or canoe down a man-made concrete river are the best in the world at what they do. Kudos to them. They should be bloody proud of themselves just for getting there.