Olympic Hangover
Oh, no it's all over... [Sobs weakly into knotted fists, rocking unsteadily to and fro in foetal position.]
I am maniacally in the grip of post-Olympic depression. For the past 2 weeks I lived happily in a little Olympic bubble of nationalism, heroism, beautifully sculpted athletic bodies and fair play. I have been religiously glued to virtually every Olympic sport available – even rowing and boxing? Who knew that a sparky, little British man called Mo Farah running around a field 25 times could be so riveting.
Or that one’s sphincter could actually bite a hole in one’s undies whilst watching a swimming gala – I was Le Clos to causing myself a mischief when South African Chad Le Clos (that ‘beautiful boy’ to quote his father Bert) beat Michael Phelps to win GOLD in the 200m Butterfly.
I blatantly supported my Motherland and host nation. Shouting and weeping in equal measure for Team GB and Team SA. I was more than a little teary and proudly South African when Le Clos drizzed his way through Nkosi Sikele, South Africa’s national anthem.
Tears threatened when Jess Ennis won Gold for Britain in the Heptathlon and the sight of Sir Chris Hoy blubbing at his 6th Olympic Gold medal had me in pieces.
Will I ever again feel the wonder and pride at watching The Blade Runner, Oscar Pistorius, make history by being the first double-amputee to compete against able-bodied Olympians.
Every morning I made a beeline for the sports pages and learnt nuggets of information like that an American sprinter had broken his leg at 200m into the 400m sprint relay, but kept going so as not to let his team down, or that Usain Bolt ‘the fastest man alive’ celebrated his win holed up in the Olympic Village with the Swedish Women’s Handball team. Oh, the tears, the sweat, the drama and that was just as an armchair spectator.
But now after the fanfare and glory and the overwhelming sight of the Spice Girls reunion at the closing ceremony (what witchcraft is this? Is it a timemachine?) I’m just not sure I can manage reality.
Still there is the Paralympics and my new crush [sigh] Oscar [swoon] Pistorius. My friend Pantaholic and I have clashed over who gets Oscar, she maintains she spotted him first. I plan to stalk him at the Paralympics Games and if all else fails in the spirit of fair play and epic Olympic battles I’ll race her for him.
I am maniacally in the grip of post-Olympic depression. For the past 2 weeks I lived happily in a little Olympic bubble of nationalism, heroism, beautifully sculpted athletic bodies and fair play. I have been religiously glued to virtually every Olympic sport available – even rowing and boxing? Who knew that a sparky, little British man called Mo Farah running around a field 25 times could be so riveting.
Or that one’s sphincter could actually bite a hole in one’s undies whilst watching a swimming gala – I was Le Clos to causing myself a mischief when South African Chad Le Clos (that ‘beautiful boy’ to quote his father Bert) beat Michael Phelps to win GOLD in the 200m Butterfly.
I blatantly supported my Motherland and host nation. Shouting and weeping in equal measure for Team GB and Team SA. I was more than a little teary and proudly South African when Le Clos drizzed his way through Nkosi Sikele, South Africa’s national anthem.
Tears threatened when Jess Ennis won Gold for Britain in the Heptathlon and the sight of Sir Chris Hoy blubbing at his 6th Olympic Gold medal had me in pieces.
Will I ever again feel the wonder and pride at watching The Blade Runner, Oscar Pistorius, make history by being the first double-amputee to compete against able-bodied Olympians.
Every morning I made a beeline for the sports pages and learnt nuggets of information like that an American sprinter had broken his leg at 200m into the 400m sprint relay, but kept going so as not to let his team down, or that Usain Bolt ‘the fastest man alive’ celebrated his win holed up in the Olympic Village with the Swedish Women’s Handball team. Oh, the tears, the sweat, the drama and that was just as an armchair spectator.
But now after the fanfare and glory and the overwhelming sight of the Spice Girls reunion at the closing ceremony (what witchcraft is this? Is it a timemachine?) I’m just not sure I can manage reality.
Still there is the Paralympics and my new crush [sigh] Oscar [swoon] Pistorius. My friend Pantaholic and I have clashed over who gets Oscar, she maintains she spotted him first. I plan to stalk him at the Paralympics Games and if all else fails in the spirit of fair play and epic Olympic battles I’ll race her for him.
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