#Is this burning (burning) an eternal flame...#

From being deeply rubbish at football when I was in single figures and short trousers to being made to play rugby when I was older and hairier, my contempt and indeed outright hatred of sport has been passionate and lifelong, mollified only occasionally by something like the World Cup or football matches that mean a lot to cornfedpig, which find us sozzled in the pub cheering along.

Consequently, it’s been a weird experience to find myself fervently hoping we got the Olympics. I would have fully expected to find myself on the other side of the barrier, sneering at the whole enterprise, saying the money could be better spent on other things, and saying exciting and groundbreaking things like “I really don’t give a toss” (full marks, the Serious Novelist David Baddiel!). Fifteen years ago, in fact, that’s exactly what I would have done.

However, older and at least marginally cannier, I’m aware now of the incredible impact that hosting an Olympics can have on a city, and even a country. It’s one of the few genuine examples of a rising tide floating all boats. The East End will be transformed, and bloody not before time. London’s transport will benefit immeasurably. It is, by any gauge, a Good Thing.

Of course, it’s always possible that we’ll fall foul of our usual failings: dishonesty; incompetence; mean, petty backroom machinations; and the solid conviction that it’s better to throw up a building in six months that will crumble in twelve than to do a decent job. The possibility alone of Ken Livingstone trying to leave his knuckleprints all over this project should have Kelly Holmes waking up in a cold sweat tonight. But I find myself, as I have been all along, bizarrely optimistic that we might just be able to cobble this together, for all our benefit.

Nothing will actually induce me to sit down and watch the damn thing once it’s here, mind. I haven’t changed that much.