I’ve lost my husband to a mistress and her name is Sochi.
Is it the Lycra that’s so compelling, the austere beauty of the place, or simply the madness of what’s going on?
The games purport to be Olympian but to me, most of the time they are more like a competition in the foolishness of humankind than a test of strength, speed and endurance.
It’s like watching a series of those home videos again and again (remember You’ve Been Framed?), but this time the contestants are doing it in their national colours while the rest of the world sits and watches through their hands, saying things like ‘ouch’, and ‘why would you do that?’ in unison.
I’m just being bad-tempered. I do have the utmost respect for those who choose to compete at their sport – however ludicrous and subjective it might be – at a world-class level. They are obviously dedicated and extreme people.
For me, the best bits about the Olympics have been Channel Four’s anthem of Gay Mountain, shortly followed by Canada’s Let’s Keep It That Way, which depicts two men suggestively getting into bobsleigh position.
Next on my roster of all things wonderful is the outfit of a man from Mexico, whose Lycra comes complete with mariachi costume superimposed on top.
With my husband glued to the screen, embracing his Canadian heritage (he yearns for snow, to ski through the mountains while chasing down a grizzly bear in a James Bond-style epic), I decided to fight back against the homophobes and set off to Portsmouth with a friend to check out that the gay scene here was alive and kicking up its home-grown heels.
You know what I love about gay men? The lack of reserve. Apparently I look a little bit (after several pints I’m sure) like Nigella Lawson.
I knew the investment in the new push-up bra was worth it. The Canadian on the couch might not have noticed, but gay Portsmouth certainly did.
But one thing that did bother me was the repetitive music. Where were the anthems that I remembered from my youthful escorting of the same friend when we were at university together?