Tuesday night. Three days before the Olympics. You gaze at Tesco online store, puzzled by the decision that rests before you. Six boxes of cereal bars or five?
On Friday, I head down to Twickenham to begin my Olympic journey. In reality of course, the ambition to be involved in the Games began on the 20th October 2010, when I filled out the volunteer application form (the dregs of my inbox reliably inform me of this). I've certainly questioned my sanity on more than one occasion during the process, but as I reach the point of no return, these worries have been increasingly dispelled.
Others have also questioned my sanity. For a start, I'm camping for the entirety of the two weeks, albeit in relative luxury of the grounds of a college. I haven't put in print what my job really entails, due to the advised embargo placed upon us. I'm happy to save the secret for this blog, which will be serialised after the Games.
So why am I doing it? It's been both costly and time-consuming, and although I know I'll have probably the best two weeks of my life, I've had to fend off people exclaiming that I 'must be mad' on more than one occasion!
I don't want to be left out.
When this Olympic Games turns out to be the best ever (and trust me, it will), I don't want to be left wondering what might have been. I don't want to be sat watching the 2060 Games, held on Jupiter, when the highlights of London 2012 are hologrammed (HD of course) into our living rooms, and have my grandchildren turn to me and ask:
'Granddad, what did you do during the 2012 Games? Surely you got the hoverboard down to your capital city and went to see it all happening?'
If I then had to tell them I didn't get involved at all, I'd just be really, really sad. I feel the same way about not going to Bruges with Blues this season, just really disappointed.
Today, as I nursed both a hangover and a feeling that my life is just meandering towards both Friday (short-term), mediocrity (mid-term), and death (long-term), I watched a few Olympics videos on the BBC website. Moments of genuine brilliance, controversy, and history. Denise Lewis. Kelly Holmes. Jonathan Edwards. And that's just in my lifetime. I want to say I felt the buzz sweep the arena when similar moments happen during these Games.
So, the blog. It'll be awash with references to the greats of literature, Dickens, Shakespeare, E.L. James. There'll be moments of passion, akin to Fifty Shades of Grey, describing in detail the saucy process of washing my underpants in a sink. There'll be numerous musings on public transport, such as ponderings about places such as Leighton Buzzard. There may even be photos of me looking suave for the ladies, or tucking into a meat pie for the blokes
I must point out that this blog should not be taken too seriously (surprising, I know). I've been criticised for my cynicism on more than one occasion, but trust me, if I believed everything I tweeted/Facebooked/blogged, I'd have packed in this Games maker lark a long time ago. I love sport, both for its partisan qualities and its art, and I firmly believe that from a purely 'sport-as-art' point of view, the London Olympics will be the pinnacle of our sport-watching lives.
A bold claim. And I'll be at the centre of it all. Bring it on.
Footnote: The documentary about Tom Daley on Monday night, shown on the BBC, was an excellent programme about the life of a top athlete, but also a normal kid. Daley lost his Dad three months after I lost mine, and the insight into how it shakes your world articulated my feelings better than I've been able to in the last eighteen months. My Dad loved the Olympics, and could barely contain his excitement when London won the bid. I vividly remember him saying 'even if it's Mexico v Swaziland women's football at Villa Park, I'm going to an event'. Bet he was lying. Probably.
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