If at first you don't succeed, destroy all evidence that you tried

As Chrissie Hynde sang in 1982, back on the chain gang for me today. And wouldn’t you know it, more meetings. Seven-point-six hours in a day and already three vanished in bloody meetings. One has to smile. Throw in catching up on correspondence and pleasantries, and can understand why I am pressed for time.

Of course, I have not let this prevent me from getting a big ol’ bunch o’ snapshots this morning on the way in. Thankfully, it was a crisp but clear winter morn, rather than an overcast beginning to the day. The light, it must be said, was tremendous.

But I want, for a moment, to comment on other matters. Despite making little effort of either keep an eye on or steer clear of them, I am already mightily sick of these blasted Olympics.

It is the media you see, as usual they are starting to get my goat, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

You see, Australian ‘journalists’ (as a pack) can be an infuriating bunch. When we’re doing well, it is all “GOLD! GOLD! GOLD! By Christ We Aussies Are Tops!” When others (the poms in particular) are doing slightly better, whaddaya know, sometimes silver is better than gold. Yeah, it’s suddenly about big hearts, big efforts and beautiful, bounding, bouncing babes (come on, do you really think Stephanie Rice is that interesting?!?)

Just a bit of free form thinking here, but maybe the thing that has ruined it for me is how the Australian Institute of Sport in set about churning out dozens of elite athletes across the disciplines, but somewhere along the way ensures that each and every one of them is completely and utterly sterile and devoid of any personality. You see, they are just so profoundly dull.

Oh yes, they each wave their little flag with a bit of a wink and a giggle that suggests naughtiness, but even that looks coached. You can’t help but feel that anyone with a bit of go in them, with a bit of flair or (heaven forbid) character was screened out long ago by some faceless apparatchik of the automaton factory up there in Canberra. As my teachers used to say to me: “nobody likes a smartarse”. Weet-bix don’t want a threat to the brand on the box, they want a big smile, nice abs and bronzed arms.

You want character? The Beijing 2008 notion of ‘character’ doe s not extend beyond wheeling out Laurie f@$&*#g Lawrence with a poem about ‘Aussie Grit’ or ‘the Larrikin Aussie spirit’. Quite Laurie, nothing says ‘larrikin’ like rhyming couplets!

Let’s face it; the Australian Olympic committee don’t want characters. The current crop is reminiscent of the interminable gangs of Big Brother contestants: young, fit, toned and easy on the eye, but not a whole lot going on underneath. It’s battle of the bland here. Ho hum, what else can be expected of the hot-housing of kiddies from age ten that professional sport has become these days?

Where are the fatties? The moustached blokes in headbands? The angry lesbians? Where are the blokes chucking their silver medel in the river because being the first loser is just not good enough?

Bloody Olympics.