Sweet Childlike Memories

I know that we are supposed to be getting all existential here and generally dribbling on in a metaphysical, wanky manner, but that seems far too hard when your mind has shut down due to OSD (Olympic Sleep Disorder). This is a common enough complaint around this time of the 4 year sports cycle, especially when you live in the wrong hemisphere. For example, if you took the number of hours sleep snuck over the past couple of nights, twirled it round a bit then flipped it, pushed it over a numerator and sat it back down next to the number of hours a flatmate of mine averages in sleep on a Sunday morning it would somewhat resemble one of those little gymnast girls perching next to a Russian shotputter. All in all a John Kerry like pronouncement that I haven't had much sleep lately. And for what?

I have no problems saying that I unreservedly enjoy the Olympic games!!! I even go out looking to get caught up in "ring fever." It's the magic of top level sports on television for over half a day for two weeks. This is something that is so rare that it must be savoured. I think for me the Olympics is a collection of good sporting memories from the past 20 years all packaged together and wrapped in the human spirit. The first games that I remember were in Seoul and I spent the afternoon of the opening ceremony knocking on our neighbours door every five minutes to see whether it had started yet (I should explain that until the day the 1995 Rugby World Cup started my parents had never shirked their responsibilities as nannies by subbing out for TV).

One of the best things about the Olympics is to brush up on your knowledge of obscure sports. Greco-Roman wrestling for instance - take one large, preferable hairy bloke wearing lycra and tell him to get on his hands and knees then smile coyly while waiting for the other like individual to mount him. After which they will roll around a bit and grunt. You can win a gold medal for this all you non-traditional males out there. You get to watch track and field with all the best athletes in the world - with a few drug scandals thrown in for extra excitement though that is where weightlifting truly steps up to the mark. But even watching worryingly masculine eastern European women lifting things above thier heads is great drama, especially at three in the morning. After many years of complaining about gymnastics now I can truly appreciate it, apart from that rythmic nonsense which is just an excuse to ponce around a bit and pretend it's both arty and clever (a bit like this blog really, you always hate what most closely resembles yourself). Pretty much just ballet dancers who were a bit fat is what I've deduced.

One thing I am sick of is the constant pandering to the "youth market" whatever that is. Technically I am part of that demographic but to put it simply it just bores me. In the Olympics this is typified most in beach volleyball. What a complete waste of time, almost as bad as basketball. If you want women wearing little just bring up another browser while you read this. Compared to the original game this version is retarded, take away two thirds of the participants, and two thirds of their clothing and make them do the same thing on a surface where it's hard to move. Like trampolining I don't want to watch a sport that is basically recreation. If we're going to go down that track we should have beach cricket, touch, that one where you dig for bits of paper that correspond to prizes (just bury the medals and make them fight for them with driftwood), and the ultimate - storm the heights.

What's most frustrating about this whole fun in the sun malarky is that normal volleyball is such a great game to watch. (Disclaimer: I have never played a game of either form of volleyball in my life.) And as for sex appeal I don't think it get's much better than Italy v Brasil, basically two teams of models banging a ball around. Much better than the lesbian biker chicks the Australians sent for the beach version.

Anyway I think the highlights have just started.

BTW RSVP ASAP

Just so that right from the start people who may or may not read this get a fair representation of the motivations for embarking on this (sure to be) mythical adventure I will use this, my first ever blog post, to outline my hopes and dreams for this precocial child.

While my companion in this adventure is prancing forth into cyberpace trying to catch up with the overflow of his creative heart and mop up some of that goodness, I am a little more timid remembering the last time that I entered the public arena I ended up with about 100 litres of gunge down my neck. Even bearing that in mind; the excitement now, with endless blank pages to be imprinted with genius, brings to mind a lover stretched out before one waiting in anticipation.

Of course one has to wonder if the cave man had spent all his time recording his environment for posterity then there wouldn't have been much time for hunting and subsistence evolutionising. And so inspired I end.

An Invitation

Somewhere deep in my overcrowded psyche is a very distinct urge to create something. It is this urge that drives me (and most likely everyone else) to prance somewhat pathetically into the public arena and, without any further ado, pour out my overflowing, imperfect heart. Perhaps it was this same urge that caused Leonardo daVinci or Claude Monet to first place their stuttering stokes on canvas, or caused Plato to take whatever it was he took to that huge stone tablet and begin work on his Republic. Perhaps it is the same urge that caused the Mesolithic Man to paint on the walls of his cave crying out in the darkness of his ancient world that he should not die unremembered.

Whatever it may be, here at last is the cave wall I’ve been seeking, the tight white canvas stretching off to the horizon, the virgin stone tablet awaiting my manly chisel. So I invite you, let us cast off these mortal chains and give in to that thrilling baying in our blood; that desire to leave our mark and sleep the peaceful sleep of one who has, at last, created.