Gold standard

Heavens, we do like a moan. Sure the traffic will be hell; the commercialism mind-numbing; the Zil lanes a pain; and the presence of the egregious will.i.am, a man so irritating he makes Stephen Fry seem likable, lugging the Olympic torch is preposterous. Usain Bolt will probably miss the final because he’s been stopped and searched driving through Brixton in a rented Beamer, and the starter pistols will doubtless set off a health and safety alert. The miserabilists will have a field day or 15 but for the rest of us the Olympics will knock our blocks off.

You don’t have to buy into all the waffle surrounding the Games to love the sport. The IOC charter makes a couple of idle references to the pursuit of excellence before reeling off pages and pages about commercial opportunities, and of course savage sanctions against unwanted intruders into the money-pot. But the message of Baron de Coubertin about taking part is still magical. I once spent an enjoyable few days skiing with a charming bloke called Dave Warren. You probably won’t have heard of him and neither had I. But he was Britain’s third runner in that miraculous Moscow 800 metres final when Seb Coe just pipped the favourite, Steve Ovett, to the gold. Warren came eighth and last, just under four seconds and infinite strides behind. So no global fame, no sponsorship and no rewards. Just a return to his successful business career and the immutable fact that he was an Olympic finalist.

The other day I was at the London Press Club awards, and thank you British Gas for continuing to sponsor them at a time when journalism in this country is coming under increasingly demented attack. British Gas also sponsor British swimming and the great Duncan Goodhew was at our table.