Man I’m sick of the Olympics already and the games haven’t actually started yet!
It seems like every night this year the news bulletins have had some story on some athlete who is set to journey to the games this month. They’ve all been remarkably upbeat given that almost three quarters of them don’t stand a shit show of winning a medal of any colour and that’s not me being a negative bastard, that’s fact.
I’ve never ever gotten excited about either a Commonwealth or Olympic games, even when I was a kid and you spent months leading up to each Games by doing a whole syllabus on the damn thing because it meant that the teacher could spend less time on planning educational lessons and more time trying to root other members of the faculty. Needless to say teachers love it when the Olympics and Commonwealth games roll round.
I was never good at athletics, hence my disinterest in all things Olympic. Despite my football prowess I could never quite muster the inclination to just run for any length of time. Chase a little white ball all over the place, yes, chase brown boys round a 400 metre track, no. The only ‘jumping’ I ever excelled in was ‘to conclusions’, an event which I still hold a gold medal in to this very day actually. As for the throwing events, lets just say that even after I discovered the art of masturbation my right arm was nothing to write home about. I do recall blowing away the field one year in a tennis ball throwing contest but I have a vague recollection of being grouped that time with kids in wheelchairs, so the less said about that the better.
I’ve had some bad experiences with organised athletic meets too. None more so than in third form where at the themed athletics day our class came as ‘Twins’. The girls had spent all week painting a magnificent banner that had been mounted on poles, which Coops and I were to hold high above our heads as we ran out onto the field. All fired up, our class started whooping it up as we made our entrance so that the whole school would turn to see us as we rocked out with our cocks out, figuratively speaking. Unfortunately Coops and I had not discussed previously which direction our juggernaut would head out in and about 4 seconds into the charge we went our separate ways - as did the banner. Now we were pretty loud that day, but the laughter from about 300 kids as the banner tore was louder.
To cap off a great day, somebody downtroued me as I stood around waiting for an event to start. Coops and I had dressed as football players and in 1990 they still wore short shorts so I was gagging for a downtrou really. Luckily I was still of the age that mummy dressed me so the tighty whitey y fronts (which were probably blue because my mother never wanted to tempt fate by putting white fabric next to my arse) held firm and I, or rather the school, was spared the sight of my undercarriage.
Incidentally a few years later I would partially re-enact that scene by wittingly mooning Bruiser across the very same field as we went our separate ways after school one time. He still claims to this very day that his retina bear the scars of the blinding light that emanated off my lily white buttocks at that very moment.
We had this chick in our class who fancied herself as a sprinter too. Well she fancied herself as many thinks really but the expression ‘good from afar but far from good’ springs to mind when thinking back on those. She never one a race in all the years I had the pleasure of sharing a class with her despite all her hype. To make matters worse she was the poorest loser out and always took a dive near the end of the race when it became abundantly clear she was not going to win. I’m pretty sure she was never really injured before she took the dive, but when you’re doing the hundred metres at breakneck speed and you decide to fall over, chances are you’re going to end up second best to the ground and need to be carried off. Stupid bitch.
So chances are I will watch a bit of the Games despite being over it, if only to see women in ‘tards, but I won’t pretend to get all excited when a Kiwi athlete finishes tenth and breaks their personal best. Fuck it’s a sad day when after travelling half way round the world to compete in the anus of Asia you come back happy with tenth. I’ve always been of the mind that if you’re not there to win then why is it that you are there at all?
Someone has to make up the numbers sure, but does it really have to us?
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