I must say I feel a wee twinge of sadness that tomorrow is the last day of the Olympic swimming. There is nothing I like more than an adonis of a bloke ascending from the crystal blue depths of a pool, water dripping down over those muscly shoulders and washboard tummy and glorious legs… phwooaaaaaaar!
But what the hell am I supposed to lust after now? The Athletics just doesn't do it for me. For one, there's Bruce McEveny's gushing superlative-ridden commentary. And then there's the dreadful slow motion replays of running blokes. Men in skimpy lycra sprinting at ungodly speeds were not meant to be slowed down like that. I cover my eyes and groan to avoid seeing things moving that I don't want to see moving, ie. wedding tackle swinging back and forth like the pendulum on an old grandfather clock…. tick… tock… tick… tock… But at least you won't have to put up with my lust-filled logging anymore and I can return to my regular schedule of profound prose.