In just a few hours, the Commonwealth Games will be over.
Seven years in the making, Glasgow 2014 has flown past in just eleven days.
I haven’t slept much, I haven’t done much apart from work and watch sport (sometimes that was work, sometimes I just pretended it was work) – but I’ve been so incredibly proud to be a part of this event. So incredibly proud of my city, and my country.
The atmosphere has been electric, the buzz in Glasgow infectious. In the blazing sun, it felt like nowhere on earth could be better. And in the pouring rain – well, we remembered we were in Scotland. But we still loved it.
Everyone’s been smiling, laughing and talking to one another – actually, properly talking. We’ve cheered for every single nation, and I like to think they’ve all cheered for us.
But the Games need to finish now.
Not because I’m tired, or because it’s raining again, or because I’m going on holiday tomorrow. (Even though they’re all true.)
Because the Commonwealth Games have done something to me.
Something bad; something dark.
They’ve made me very, very sleazy.
It started a while ago, and developed gradually.
(Actually, it started two years ago, during London 2012. During an interview with Team Scotland’s Chef de Mission, Jon Doig, about preparations for Glasgow 2014, I threw in a question about Sir Chris Hoy’s newly set Olympic record. As I left, Jon commented on what an all-round lovely guy Sir Chris is, and asked if I’d met him. My response? “Oh yes. I just couldn’t stop staring at his THIGHS.” He looked slightly alarmed.)
But this week, it reached fever pitch.
(Other) cyclists, rugby players, hockey players, judokas (that IS a word y’know), runners, gymnasts, swimmers, divers – no one has escaped.
Watching the diving – my favourite of all the Commonwealth sports, FYI – at the Royal Commonwealth Pool, in between exchanging faintly explicit picture messages with a colleague who was at the men’s hockey; I found myself eyeing up the jacuzzi where all the competitors congregated between dives. They probably don’t call it a jacuzzi – there’s probably a Sports Term – but there was no time to ponder that; I was too busy counting the obstacles in my path. Two security guards? No problem. Four officials? Piece of cake. A couple of metal railings? I’ll just hop on over!
The following day, I was editing an interview with Ross Murdoch, who’d caused a stir by beating poster boy (and object of many inappropriate thoughts and discussions), Michael Jamieson. Who’d already caused me to exclaim, after interviewing him pre-games, “I hadn’t actually looked at his face before – but it’s lovely, too.” In my defence, I was interviewing him right next to a gigantic print of THIS image:
I deserved a medal.
Anyway, Ross was saying how he and Michael are still friends, there are no hard feelings, and he has no doubt his team-mate will bounce back.
“He’ll be back next year, harder than ever.”
I had to go for a lie down.
So the Games must finish.
For the sake of all that is good, and proper, and moral and appropriate.
Until then, please excuse me. I’m going for a cold shower.
