I think I've caught Olympic fever. My speech is
peppered with involuntarily shouts of, "Gold!" as if I'm suffering
from a rare form of Spandau Ballet Tourette's. Yesterday, I became
emotional at the sight of Daley Thompson in a white shell suit,
jogging with a flaming torch. I fear I may never bore of hearing
what Michael Phelps had for lunch.
The last time I was this excited about coloured rings, Fox's had
just reinstated their purple and yellow biscuit. The games haven't
even started, and already I can't get enough. Even the ever present
sight of Usain Bolt's lycra encased moose knuckle, in full HD, has
done nothing to dampen my ardor.
My enthusiasm for the Olympics has come as a shock to people,
because I don't 'do' sport myself. When God was handing out
sporting prowess most of my lesbian friends were all at the front
of the queue, and I was right at the back. I only joined the queue
because I mistook it for an All Saints sample sale.
I'm very clumsy, so if I'd had a sporty bone in my body I'd have
broken it by now - along with the arm I broke somersaulting (on a
bouncy castle), the elbow I broke roller blading (in the driveway)
and the wrist I broke falling over a tennis racket I left in the
hallway.
My dad is super compettive. He had the sport gene. He just refused
to pass it to me. I was his doubles tennis partner for a while, and
he never let me take a shot. The ball would be falling on my
racket, and he'd shove me out the way and yell, "Mine!" It was like
playing with a toddler.
People think that lesbians and sport go together, like cat videos
and YouTube. They'll ask, "What sports do you play?" as if it's a
given. They're shocked when I tell them that I can't even 'bat for
the other side'. At school I was the last one to be picked when the
rounders team was chosen. I've still never made it to fourth base.
The only thing I've ever scored on that playing field was a bottle
of White Lightning.
I'm rubbish at sport - and I'm fine with that. Give me a comfy
armchair over a chaffed nipple any day. Had my audition for The
Spice Girls been successful my moniker would have been Spectator
Spice. Instead of a famous high-kick, my signature move would have
involved throwing myself down on the sofa and crossing my feet in
front of the telly. Zig-a-zig-ah!
I've even managed to lay my hands, very respectfully, on a couple
of women's beach volleyball tickets. My dad, on the other hand, is
going to watch Swedish men play handball. I think we both know
who's the real winner here.
