Watching the Olympics this summer has had a profound affect on me. No I'm not about to start training for the Omnium in Rio and neither am I inclined to even think about reaching for those Men's Rings in the gym. However Team GB's heroic men and strapping women have given me a real sense of pride and reminded me that in days gone by it was high achievement that was respected and not what apps you have on your iPad.
After months of grizzling about what a waste of money the London 2012 games were going to be I was hooked and emotional from the first bars of Elgar's Nimrod at the Opening Ceremony. Who would have guessed that Great Britain and Northern Ireland would produce one of the best sporting events in recent times and come 3rd in the medal table behind the Godzilla and King Kong.
It wasn't all smooth sailing as Paul McCartney died an excruciating death in front of billions. The Queen was heard to say that she didn't know Ken Dodd was still alive during his turgid attempt at Hey Jude. A few Diddy Men might have helped.
Determination and bravery were on display across 28 digital channels every night and never more so than when Girl Power arrived in Stratford and the Spice Girls clung for their lives on the top of 5 black cabs. The drivers were weaving around the stadium like they were rushing home to catch Top Gear. Geri Halliwell was so drained by the time they got to the last chorus of Spice Up Your Life that she'd gone from a nice amber glow to the colour of wet cement after 3 laps. I'm sure one of Posh's legs snapped as the cab swerved to avoid a dancer.
The thing I love about the Olympics is that it's the only time when you get a big pat on the back for losing. No other sporting event celebrates the runners up just as much as the winners. That's what makes it great for us Brits. We specialise at being also rans and make great use of the saying that it's the taking part that counts. We think winning is a dirty word, or rather we try and discourage competitiveness so as not to upset obese and lazy school kids. All that does is make the fat losers think it's OK to be fat losers. Doesn't it?
The Olympics are like the best reality TV ever. Who needs TOWIE when you have hot guys and girls in skimpy gear flashing across your TV every night in high definition. The men's 100m is a sight to behold in slow motion and why is it that rowers always seem to get a semi on the medal podium? My little red button is worn out after all this excitement.
I've come to the conclusion that I want the Olympics to be on telly every week instead of junk like TOWIE and Geordie Shore. The cast are much hotter and the emotions more real. Gripping story lines of athletes struggling with injuries and battling against the odds are so much better than some orange idiot with a trout pout getting her arse cheeks lifted.
The Essex brood might wear outrageous clothes on their show but none of them can wear weird like Clare Balding and Sue Barker. The Queens of Quality Seconds at Bon Marché.
You can also keep your Joey Essex's and Bachelor Spencer as the sweetest candy this summer was Tom Daley. Looking worryingly like an eight year old who's gone into early puberty he captured the nation's heart whilst wearing a small blue elbow pad. Did Stella McCartney run out of material?
I salute you Team GB. You done good and I'm missing your muscles and sweat. I miss the boys too.
So until the next major Lycra event I'm passing the time with more British losers on Celebrity Big Brother.
Til next time x
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