I have a confession to make – I have not bothered much with the Olympics.
By chance, I did watch a bit of the women’s marathon with one of my daughters. We both developed homicidal thoughts towards Eddie McGuire – if he read from that cheat sheet one more time, there could have been trouble. But we would have been exonerated, with the rest of Australia providing solid defence.
(And his timing could not have been worse. Just as he was rereading out the story about some lass from Russia or somewhere nearby – you know she survived on a lettuce leaf a day, husband died, war broke out, etc. etc – she pulled up lame.)
But as I was flicking through the channels last night, I came across a little promo (?) from Channel Nine, funky music in the background, involving a collection of current Olympic disasters/tragedies/accidents. You know the sort of thing – athletes crashing into hurdles, divers doing unplanned belly flops, footballers hurtling over seats at the side of the field, lots of hysterical tears.
Hilarious? I think not, but maybe I have now discovered what the Spirit of Olympism really is all about. It’s the equivalent of waiting for the car crashes at Indianapollis 500.