A seasonal competition: which phrase will BBC commentators utter most over the next fortnight: a) ‘winter wonderland’; b) ‘mountain magic’; c) ‘oh, bad luck, Great Britain’? The Winter Olympics have begun: bobble hats, fur-collared greatcoats, frostbitten noses and hour upon hour of various forms of sliding. The media battalions easily outnumber the 2,500 competitors; the security army outnumbers both put together. Turin’s sublime pelmet of Alpine spires will be crawling with security snipers and sharpshooters as if it was a film-set for the latest 007 blockbuster. I know the hardy Scots love their skiing, but I’m a soft southerner (or rather, a wet westerner) and I am mighty relieved not to be there for once.
Some strongly fancy the chance of a Brit medal or two this time; I’ll believe it when I see it. My recollection of covering serious sport in my Millett’s duffelcoat down the years is of filing pretty much the same piece every day after yet another Brit hopeful (they always talk a good race) slides in 28th out of 30, so you have to conjure 500-odd differently arranged words for the folks back home about triumphant ‘personal bests’ and the cruelly unfair nor’easterly which suddenly whipped down from the Matterhorn just as they started their run.
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