I just love the Olympics – sitting there over my breakfast watching enthralling sports such as archery and sailing. Sports that most of us know nothing about, but a Brit is taking part so it suddenly becomes as thrilling as football or rugby.
The other day I found myself shouting at three British female archers to pull their collective finger out, and urging the French trio to miss the target, or indeed the stadium, altogether.
‘Remember Agincourt!’ I shrieked.
Remembering very little about Agincourt myself, I’m not entirely sure what I was trying to do – tell the Brits we always beat the French with bows and arrows so get on with it, or remind the French that British archers are always superior so they might as well go home now.
Whichever – it failed. The Frogs won! How dare they!? How dare our women let them win!?
All this while the Russians were invading Georgia, while the Georgians were invading South Oswestry, or South Somewhere. Which, of course, we all condemn as barbarous.
Strange thing, patriotism. If the Olympic spirit truly ruled more than two weeks every four years, then there would be hope for the world. We could all just shout at our enemies and then get over it. Shake hands and talk over a beer. Sort it out over a plate of fish and GM chips.
Then everybody would be happy. Except Prince Charles.
But that’s another story.
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