Roll on 2012

Of course I know all the arguments about the cost, the human rights issues, the corporatism, the exploitation of athletic achievement for chauvinistic purposes. But there’s still something about the Olympics that shines through it all and when that gorgeous torch went out in the Beijing sky an hour or so ago, I felt more than a tinge of emotion about the whole affair.

I think, on balance, it was right that the Olympics went to China. I think it was right, too, that there were widespread protests, most notably as the Olympic flame made its way around the world from Greece to Beijing. I think that both the presence of the Games in China and the protests against them can only help the cause of liberalisation and democracy there.

Am I trying to have my sporting and political cake and eat it too? I don’t believe so.

There are few sporting, cultural or other events of any description, even in our globalised world, in which a commitment to contact, communication and friendship between nations is raised so high – and none in which it reaches so many people. When it happens, it’s worth cherishing, for all the flaws.

And the opportunity to see human beings performing at the very peak of physical achievement is a thing of absolute beauty. We may not be gods, but as a celebration of life it's right up there with invention, music, poetry, drama and the very best of human endeavour. Roll on London 2012.

Build the revolution, not muscle!

Back to London in time for the Olympic track and field programme. No offence to the cyclists, sailors, swimmers and shooters (I’ll return to the beach volleyball bum smackers on another occasion), but this is what really got the Greeks going to Mount Olympus two and a half millennia ago and it’s still the main attraction for spectators in 2008.

Not for Alex Callinicos of Socialist Worker, though, I notice. ‘Two weeks of corporate sponsored flag waving in honour of a bunch of muscle-bound dullards’ is how he describes the Olympics in the latest edition of his paper.

Actually, the Olympic flag waving is one of the few places in modern sport where the corporates are still kept at a polite distance. Strange though it may seem given the levels of sponsorship that do go into the Games, no corporate logos, images or advertising are permitted inside the venues or anywhere near the winners’ podiums.

Be that as it may, since when was being a ‘muscle-bound dullard’ worthy of the critical condemnation of one of the chief theoreticians of 21st-century Trotskyism? Did Callinicos have a traumatic childhood experience with bodybuilders in his native Zimbabwe? Is the SWP about to launch an Anti-Muscle League (interesting people only to apply)?

Venus, he purrs

The Wimbledon coverage (Radio 5 Live, on a loop) continued to perk me up to the end, particularly with regard to any swooning over Venus Williams, for years round at mine known as Little Vixen Rising. ‘A lot of people fancy Venus, full stop,’ said one commentator to another at the start of the final with her sister Serena.

‘So, how’s she looking?’ said the first commentator. ‘She’s looking pretty sharp,’ replied the second with the reliable tone of an Old Speckled Hen drinker. ‘She’s unbelievably fit. She’s in a piratical outfit and her tanned and muscular arms are revealed by a sleeveless vest. Seeing her in the flesh is some sight.’ (Hmm, best switch on the telly to check this out, I thought, but keep the commentary going . . .)

‘Her hair’s still wet,’ the first commentator noted, fascinated. ‘She’s obviously just stepped out of the shower and then tied that bandanna around it.’

‘She’s kicking her heels behind her. She’s crouching, she’s crouching, she’s crouching. She’s out there and she’s running and hopping from foot to foot and shadow boxing and there’s a lot of physical domination going on.’

‘She’s well pumped up!’ burst the first commentator, suddenly reckless. ‘The world’s number seven is just dancing around! This is simply great tennis!’

‘Iveta Benesova,’ said the second commentator, suddenly serious. ‘Fourth in the world. Kind of gawky-looking, I’d say. Big strong legs, but – nothing much on top. Unlike Venus!’

A couple of days later, I shuffled into the kitchen at night only to find Boris Becker in the corner on 5 Live Extra, riffing away, rapt. ‘You know, people are always talking about Venus’s boobs like it’s a kind of pose, but she's just naturally like that. She’s always been like that. She’s always been big. I saw her when whe was just 15 and I’m telling you – it’s simply the way she is.’

Okay it was Rafael Nadal rather than Venus Williams and it was his biceps rather than her boobs that the commentators were getting all excited about. And I suppose I should say that it was the New Statesman's radio columnist Antonia Quirke and not me who authored the above piece (about Rafa not Venus, of course) – just in case you were wondering.