on the pitch. I wonder if sport might not actually be about celebrating the worst in ourselves. Just as Star Trek can be seen as being about our suspicion that we would achieve more if we let our impulsive, psychopathic side (Kirk) dominate our rationality (Spock), so sport might be a fantasy about a life unburdened by intellect giving us the opportunity to bawl our approval for someone who – in a world of ever-increasing knowledge – has focused on running and jumping. We’ve all looked into the unknowing eyes of a dog and envied him for not being worried about anything past dinner, sex and exercise. It wouldn’t be so very different if you looked into the eyes of Jamie Carragher.
The cultural weight that sports are given is deeply irrational. The BBC drew up plans to deal with news stories during the Oympics – only major stories would interrupt the Games. That could have led to some interesting sports commentary if there’d been a tragic event not deemed major: ‘There goes the starter’s gun, which reminds me, if you have a child attending school in the north-east you might want to turn to BBC Two now.’
The marketing of sport with its cod nobility is just silly, really, and it’s remarkable how the reputation of things such as the Olympics survive the evidence. It’s been revealed that much of the 2012 Olympic merchandise was made by children in China. For them the five Olympic rings mean the ones around their ankles, wrists and neck that stop them straying from their workstations. Finally, Wenlock and Mandeville make sense – they were created in the nightmares of tortured Chinese slave children. They’re the physical manifestation of despair. You’ve got to respect the Chinese; they can get their kids to make soft toys with enough consistency to start a commercial venture. I can’t even get my kid to put on his shoes when I want to leave the house.
A florist even had to take down five tissue-paper rings as they breached Olympic trademark laws. Excessive? I’d rather not say as I’m currently being threatened with action for putting down my coffee mug a few times without a coaster.
There surely needs to be a handicap system to stop the same teams always topping the tables. I’d suggest competitors have to do events wearing their country’s previous Olympics medal haul. Then Team GB could be spurred across the line by what look like half a dozen glistening golden armadillos or, depending on the event, shimmering dead swimmers. Also, I don’t see why the last day of the Olympics shouldn’t be all the gold medallists playing dodgeball till we have an ultimate champion.
Seventy-six per cent of people say the Paralympics lifted the nation’s mood. It made me more depressed. I can’t throw a discus and I’ve got arms. David Cameron said the Olympics and Paralympics have had as much impact upon the national psyche as England’s World Cup victory in 1966. I think they’ve had even more impact, as Team GB and ParalympicsGB won without cheating. The big question is how on earth is Rio going to follow London 2012? My guess is by building some stadiums and holding some sporting events inside them.
Olympic Chairman Lord Moynihan says more state-school kids need to get into competitive sports. He’s right. We were always encouraged to do cross-country running in our school. Especially when we found out that the priest’s sandals had such poor off-road traction. So many memories: ‘You’ve left your bag at home? Well, you’ll have to do the lesson in your vest and pants then.’ It didn’t matter whether it was maths, English or history. My school was very sporty. One class friend even managed the 100 metres in under eight seconds. I always wonder if he’d been taught more academic stuff whether he might have got a job and not leapt off the top of the BT Tower.
The Olympics created a new batch of sporting celebrities. Jessica Ennis was given the keys to Sheffield, although she’ll have to wait until they find them. They haven’t bothered locking it for years in the hope that someone might steal it. I’m also a big fan of Mo Farah and the Mobot. As you can do it, then dip your torso in a bin-full of soapy water, before running down the street at the head of a trail of giant bubbles.
And what about Splash!, Tom Daley’s ITV show? It’s hardly the most exciting format they could have got from the Olympics, is it? I’m sure there’d be way more viewers for a celebrity version of Munich 1972. You probably expect me to be down on Splash! but I reckon most ITV shows would be improved if contestants had to jump off a ten-metre board. Though they have messed up a perfectly good format by including a pool. Tom Daley – bless him! – every time I see him near the edge of the pool I just want to put armbands on him.
Tom Daley’s an ideal trainer as he feels no fear, being just a composite of molecules assembled by the telepathic will of the nation’s lonely aging homosexuals. Tom doesn’t let anyone sponsor him. Part of his plan is to use his deals to help nurture athletes in poorer countries. That’s why he went with Nestlé, as their aggressive promotion of powdered baby milk helps ensure only the hardiest of sub-Saharan tots survive. Still, maybe Tom needs to make as much money as he can while he’s got the chance, or in years to come he’ll be on street corners offering to hurl himself into a paddling pool for loose change.
The title brought to mind that film where Daryl Hannah’s a mermaid. For obvious reasons I could never get my head round the mechanics of her lovemaking. I suspect the lights were out and her partner was actually just tossed off by a lobster that owed her a favour. In fairness, Daley’s show is just a bit of fun and gives ITV viewers something to do instead of banging on the side of prison vans outside courts trying high-profile cases.
Sir Paul McCartney blasted Stuart Pearce as an ‘idiot’ for leaving David Beckham out of the final Team GB football squad. Imagine being lectured on team selection by a man who chose Ringo Starr to be in The Beatles and mahogany as a hair colour. I’m surprised Pearce didn’t point out who the real idiot was when it came to choosing the right guy: Mark Chapman.
Say what you like about Beckham, but he really has lived the dream – the weird dream in which you’ve got a voice like a castrated parrot and you’re married to a skeleton. Beckham was the highest-paid footballer in Major League Soccer’s history. Mind you, the second-highest-paid player was paid in food stamps. Beckham finished his career in Paris. He even learnt some of the language, but when he tried asking for soixante-neuf in Paris’s red-light district he just ended up with five dozen eggs. Victoria didn’t want to move to China as she’d probably have ended up in a jar as a treatment for trapped wind.
Oscar Pistorius and his girlfriend were called the South African Posh and Becks. David, if you’re reading this then you know what you have to do next. Nobody who reads about the Oscar Pistorius case does so for a good reason. If you’re telling yourself that you follow it because you’re interested in how the media respond to it or because of what it says about celebrity you’re even worse than the rest of us ghouls. Just be honest about your unsavoury fascination and join us with your popcorn in Modern Hell.
Pistorius was apparently annoyed about having to give up his guns. You can understand his worry. Can you imagine being in a restaurant, going to the toilet and seeing the ‘engaged’ sign . . . but not being able to shoot the person inside? He held his own personal memorial service for Reeva Steenkamp. Presumably his way of softening the blow before he asked her family if he could have her legs.
Pistorius slept with a baseball bat and a cricket bat, which seems crazy when he’s got two false legs. She must have realised he was armed as they’re the only limbs he’s got. He says he wasn’t trying to kill an intruder, just make them eligible for the next Paralympics. The tragedy is that if he had no arms, this would never have happened.
All kinds of records could be set simply by letting him fire the starting pistol at the women’s 100 metres. Poor Reeva Steenkamp. Her last moments must’ve been like a scene from The Terminator. Still, a black woman in South Africa could get killed by a disembodied head and not make the papers. Pistorius said when he heard a noise in the bathroom he felt incredibly vulnerable and feared that it was a burglar coming to steal his huge arsenal of guns, rifles and various other weapons. The police found steroids
