August 19, 2008

The Olympics, as Dave Mitchell said on Mock The Week last Thursday, are just an excuse for people to look at teenagers in leotards and get away with it.

An entirely indulgent exercise in flaunting how much bigger and better a country can build a stadium (although you can be sure London 2012 will fail that particular competition on both counts).

Some serious athletes trying to break world records that you'll never remember, thousands of also-rans who never ever will, tedious marching ceremonies, steroid-swollen muscles and ludicrously overladen television (and newspaper) reports about medal counts as though they are in some way an indication of a cure for cancer.

Seriously - other than in the most expensive two weeks the world knows every four years (and indeed during it), does anyone here ever rifle through their morning paper looking for the dressage results?

"Mum! Mum! Did the Slovakian manage to inch his horse left and right by four inches before tipping his hat at a jaunty angle? Did he?"

Does anyone honestly give a flying fuck whether two blokes can dive into a pool at exactly the same time?

"Excellent Speedos, Nigel." "Cheers. Let's hit the showers together."

What's the point in synchronised swimming?

"Hey! Did you see her fanny then!?" "It's okay - I've got Sky+."

And you? You over there? You doing the ridiculous fucking walk? Take some time out. Breathe. Then look at yourself. And then cry.

This is not actually something you'll want to tell your grandchildren, you soft cunt.

But it is what'll give you some well-deserved arthritis.