OLYMPIC FEET (SIZE 3.5 IF YOU MUST KNOW)
If you’re wondering what I’ve been up to, I’m currently awaiting my medal for suffering endless bloody coverage of the infernal Olympic games on every available medium [NB: 3.5 isn’t a medium, it’s a small]: newspapers, radio, TV, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, Chatsnap, WhatsApp, WhatsThat, WhatsThis, Postman Pat…on it bloody goes for ever and ever…
(excellent preparation; thanks Mother Nature)
swarms of mozzies
(have they relocated Rio to the UK???)
Tom Daley’s performance pants
Tom Daley’s pants performance
(lost TV remote, couldn’t switch it off)
Repeat until 12th Never
Sigh. Gold, please.
(Sorry, I’m a Jew. We eat potato latkes, wander around deserts and play the violin).
P.S. If you want legacy, we got legacy: I lived in London during the 2012 Olympics, on the actual route that Bradley Wiggins’ sideburns swooshed past my abode a full five minutes before the rest of him did (is there an Olympic category for Dubious Facial Hair? Appears to be one for everything else). The local council committed £17.50 for bunting to be hung from the street lamps, and four years later, a string of prime-colour triangles still hangs forlornly from an upright. If that’s not Olympic legacy, I don’t know what is.