I miss the Olympics. I admit my feelings have changed over the weeks. ‘Early doors’ I grew tired of the over-exposure of that little diving boy and didn’t warm to his synchronised antics; little else in the first week grabbed my attention and a soupcon of world-weary cynicism entered the psyche especially as we didn’t seem to winning a great deal. However, with a few British gold medals on the table, a large bandwagon bearing the legend ‘Jump on me!’ careered past and I leapt desperately ‘pon it. There was so much I loved watching and even that little diving boy won me over in the end. The single-mindedness and professionalism of our bicycling team proved, I found, utterly awe-inspiring; the daily quest on two wheels for gold by our lads and lasses was joyous to behold. The rowing was a thrill too and I salute those who wielded oars for Team GB and, ultimately, us. I swapped SMS texts with D last evening and we debated which of the nineteen British golds had satisfied the most. The Newent-raised fellow selected the controversial 400m scamperer Christine Ohuruogu and her epic sprint for glory, overtaking rivals galore on the home stretch. I am tempted to agree; this is a supreme athlete and she has now cracked, in the finest style, the elusive World and Olympic ‘double’. It is surely time for the issue of her missed drugs tests to be laid to rest for ever. My favourite gold medal was the last one claimed by our triumphant team by middleweight boxer James DeGale. This was a most exciting bout of pugilism. Our lad built up a seemingly unassailable lead of points which led to his Cuban challenger, Emilio Correa, fighting back in the most aggressive manner possible, landing shot after clumsy shot so that our hero was left holding on by his glove-clad fingertips at the end while I leapt about the front parlour in giddy sports ecstasy. Marvellous stuff.