You would think nothing is happening. Thanks to the time difference, apart from last Friday's spectacular opening ceremony, the Olympics are not chewing up the prime time schedules and only the more hardcore athletics fans among us would get up at 3am to watch the proceedings (I might do the same if I'm suffering from insomnia again tonight...).
I must say the whole build up has filled me with a gross sense of inadequacy and I feel a strong urge to get fit. So recently my neighbours in Ballyfuck have witnessed me out and about puffing and panting as I try to run to the nearest crossroads without developing a collapsed lung. On my two mile circuit (wimp! HA!) I must negotiate dog shit, cow shit, horse shit, potholes and stoned farmers in their tractors. On my iPod such great songs as The Cult's She Sells Sanctuary and Echo and the Bunnymen's Lips Like Sugar (going through a depressing 80s revival at the moment). On my back a 10 year old Che Guevara t-shirt with a disturbing dark triangle of sweat.
Seriously though, this urge will wear off me in about two weeks or so when all the really fit folk return home. I have a better chance of winning gold in the Civil Service Olympics, most likely in the Swearathon. (I would have to do ten more years' service to attain even bronze in the Fattest Arse event).
So I just end up in the local pub as usual. And at closing time there's a roach coach outside selling chips and burgers, which I can eat in front of the telly watching some bloke throw a javelin.
Now playing: Tom Waits - Closing Time
via FoxyTunes
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