Extract from : For Crying Out Loud

On your marks for a village Olympics

While watching the absolutely breathtaking New Year’s Eve

firework display in London I finally formed an opinion on the

question of Britain hosting the Olympic Games.

I should explain at the outset that I don’t much like athletics.

Running is fine when you are late for a train, or when you are

nine, but the concept of running in a circle for nothing but

glory seems a bit medieval if you ask me.

Speaking of which, the javelin. In the olden days when men

ate bison and Mr Smith had not yet met Mr Wesson, I should

imagine that a chap with an ability to chuck a spear over a

great distance would end up with many wives. But now, I

don’t really get off on watching a gigantic Pole lobbing a stick.

It’s the same with the hammer. When some enormous

Uzbek hurls it into row G of the stadium’s upper circle, do we

think he is the best hammer thrower in the world? Or the best

hammer thrower among those who’ve dedicated the past four

years of their lives to throwing hammers? With the best will

in the world, that’s not a terribly big accolade.

No matter. The Olympic Games are like Richard and Judy.

Whether you like them or not, they exist and they are popular.

The question that’s been vexing me these past few months is

whether I should be pleased they’re coming to London.

I think Lord Sir Pope Archbishop Earl Duke King Seb Coe

should be richly rewarded for having secured a British win.

He was employed to beat the French and by wearing a beige

suit and talking about multi-ethnicity he did just that. Good

on him.