It's over and we're gutted, and not just because of a derriere. From Thorpedo to Balding, we salute London 2012...
Michael Johnson wanting to kill Colin Jackson
The straight-backed sprint hero loathes Jackson. Detests him. He thinks of him as nothing but an excitable Welsh pranny with a questionable wardrobe who will slip into some bastard patois at a moments notice. He came incredibly close to twatting him on Saturday, which was highlighted by the fact he had disappeared the next time they went to the gantry.
Jessica Ennis’ arse
When we’re old, grey and incontinent, we will remember Ennis as the girl who destroyed everyone in the hurdles before ruling the Heptathlon like nobody before. Yet as we’re relatively young and virile, the shot of her standing up in the long jump pit, one cheek on show after a knicker disaster, will live with us for a while.
Brendan Foster and Steve Cram
Great Britain were far more successful outside of the Athletics Stadium than in it, but this pair of unashamedly partisan shouty uncles were the best of the BBC commentary team by a length. The cutaway of Brendan when Mo won the 5000 metres on Saturday was joy incarnate.
Special mention must also go to Richie Woodhall & Ron McIntosh for their ace commentary
As a fan of the hardest game I am regularly sickened by the nonsense that surrounds the professional ranks. Even if the new scoring system leaves a lot to be desired, Joshua, Campbell, Evans, Adams, Jonas, Taylor et al made watching boxing a pleasurable experience again, where skill and sportsmanship replaced trash-talking and freakshows. Special mention must also go to Richie Woodhall & Ron McIntosh for their ace commentary.
The Dutch Women’s Hockey Team
Christ. On. A. Bike.
Saying that, he’ll be on every cereal / health drink / insurance ad for the next year so we’ll probably get sick of him. But as a jogging, sprinting & smiling two-fingers to the Daily Mail and its ilk, Mo emerged as the King of Britain.
Inverdale was so taken aback by it he had a cheeky grope
John Inverdale perving over Denise Lewis
Apart from when she was clad in lycra, there is possibly no finer sight in sport than the pneumatic arse of Denise Lewis leaping around in a tight pink dress. Inverdale was so taken aback by it he had a cheeky grope and reclined to watch in glorious HD as Mo sprinted for the line.
It’s been over a week now since we last clapped eyes on the Thorpedo, and life hasn’t been the same. Louche, excitable and dressed like he was off to a Barbie, he became the BFF of everyone in the country.
The atmosphere in London
Most Fridays you’d struggle to get a light and a nod off your average group of Londoners, but the atmosphere in and around our offices was ace. Chatting to aficionados of various sports and sinking pints with a pair of septuagenarians who vaguely remebered London 1948 were the highlights.
I’m as cynical as the next man, but wasn’t it ace to see the great and good of Twitter all come together
Essentially a virtual London. I’m as cynical as the next man, but wasn’t it ace to see the great and good of Twitter all come together in celebration of something good for a change instead of sniping? I’m fully prepared for normal service to be resumed sometime this week, but I’ll miss the joy massively.
Quite possibly the coolest man to ever draw breath. Just pause for a moment and imagine where he is right now? My money is on spooning Yohan Blake after the Swedish Handball women have slipped out for some ibuprofen and an enema before round two.
Shouting knowledge about something you know nothing about
“You watch, he’s gonna kick now…” I screamed at the wife and boy as Mo started to move on Saturday night. It’s probably the first 5000m I’ve watched in full, but I now talk like an expert. See also archery, the Omnium and the Pommel Horse.
Anybody who can lift over twice their bodyweight is a cast-iron hero in my eyes
And not just because of the myriad jokes about ‘snatch’ and ‘clean and jerk’. I struggle to lift myself out of bed each morning, so anybody who can lift over twice their bodyweight is a cast-iron hero in my eyes.
Not only a loving auntie who would take you into her bosom and put TCP on your grazed elbow, but a wonderful anchor with a feel for sporting emotion and a lovely person to boot. The real Queen of England.
And five things we won’t…
Piers Morgan hammering athletes for not singing the National Anthem
I’ve no doubt Great Ormond Street will benefit from however many thousands he has donated for athletes singing God Save the Queen, but his hectoring of medalists that have trained for years to get on that podium showed him up to be the copper-bottomed arsehole he really is. Why not a silent donation? Ah, yes, because you’re a cunt.
I thought he was out of his depth when he presented the Masters but this was a whole new level of diarrhea drive without a saddle. Saved in the first week by Thorpe, he increasingly lost his mojo in the second with name slips, condescending questions and indecipherable links aplenty.
As a manager and interviewee Pearce is about as inspiring as a mogadon session
He might have regularly carped about how much “the lads are enjoying the experience” but both as a manager and interviewee Pearce is about as inspiring as a mogadon session. Jobs for the boys…
From Gibbons to Mo and back again, this has been the Olympics where everyone has had to reach for the piriton for a sudden hayfeaver outbreak. I don’t know about you but I’m spent.
Feeling like a twat for not getting tickets
Like many, all I cared about was the disruption to my daily commute. What a berk. I’ve spent the last two weeks chasing tickets, begging mates and self-flagellating over my idiocy.
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