The Carnival Is Over

Thanks for all who read Going For Gold during Athens 2004. I'm still alive and kicking over at What's New Pussycat. See you in Beijing!

Double Gold

I have no jokes or smutty comments for this one. Just a WOOHOO for that amazing chick Kellie Holmes who just won gold in the 1500m. I am stuck here at work on a Saturday night so didn't even see the race, but I am sure it was just as impressive as her 800m win. Hopefully this medal will be the magic one with chocolate inside.

Score!

Good things come to those who wait. And to those who weild great big sticks.

The Australian Men's Hockey Team downed the Dutch and bagged the gold last night, after coming close so many times before. They'd racked up three silvers and three bronze from previous Games.

Well done to the Kookas. And to their shapely biceps, too.

Paddle and Pillage

I must confess my ignorance about all things paddling. I thought kayaking and canoeing were the same thing - basically, not rowing backwards. You know, what Grant Kenny did between bowls of Nutri-Grain. But thanks to the BBC Beginners Guide I now know my C1's from K2's and Pro Vitamin B5s.

I watched the semi-finals of the C2 yesterday and was intrigued. These poor bastards actually have to haul their boat down the river while down on one knee! I can barely kneel in front of a toilet after a big night out, let alone for 500 metres while stabbing the water with a big stick. It's like they are trying to propose to a really, really indecisive woman.

Canoeing does have a certain primal appeal. There's shades of Viking in that flimsy sliver of a boat, sturdy men grunting and groaning their way down the river. One begins to imagine they're on their way to pillage a village.

This morning Martin Marinov, Australia's first canoeing Olympian since 1964, was shattered when he placed 5th in his semi-final. His coaches were hoping this Bulgarian-born beefcake would raise the profile of the sport Down Under. But Martin, my dear, I feel the answer lies in helmets, swords and screaming villagers. Aussie blokes will flock to canoeing if they hear there's costumes, just look at those idiots on The Footy Show.

It's Like A Mexican Wave

Slow Motion Replays That Never Cease To Be Funny: A camera panning across a track full of male sprinters, eight sets of wedding tackle swinging like pendulums. Tick tock indeed.

A Dingo Ate My Dignity

The Saga of the Chick That Stopped Rowing shows no signs of fading, with this cracker of a quote from Rowing Australia chairman Pat McNamara:

"I think the treatment she [Robbins] is getting at the moment is like the treatment Lindy Chamberlain got."

In The Velo

This afternoon it's all about cycling. Which always makes one wonder, which came first - cycling in velodromes or the Daytona 500? I suppose we have to go with the cycling since the bicycle predates the car by some stretch. But it's an interesting concept, guiding one's vehicle around in an endless slopey loop thingy.

These bikes are not the kind you'd hang a basket or a small child from. I know they are high tech pieces of equipment but they look like flimsy two-dimensional cardboard cut-outs from a high school drama production. I keep expecting the athletes to just pick them up and trot back and forth making vroom vroom noises, with Athens volunteers in the background holding cardboard cut-out trees and skyscrapers to create the illusion of motion.

Gymnastics Wrap-Up

While watching the gymnastics last night I thought about my mother who is a kindergarten teacher. She is always getting her kids to collect margarine containers and plastic bags and egg cartons so they can make crafty things like butterflies and letter holders. And I wondered, how would one construct a male gymnast?

I would probably get an old pair of tights and stuff them full of balled-up newspapers, then get some wool and tie off FREAKING HUGE BULGING sections to represent their gargantuan biceps. Then I would staple some strips of cooked fettuccini to the newspaper biceps to represent the FREAKING HUGE BULGING veins. Maybe a cornflake box for a chest, some toilet roll legs. I was just trying to figure what to use for the FREAKING HUGE BULGING crotch area (egg cartons?) when I realised it was probably not an appropriate activity for little kiddies.

Anyway, the gymnastics were a cracker this year, no? We have the Hamm Medal Cock-Up, The Khorkina Strop, The Khorkina Hissy Fit, Trouble In Ring County and The Alexi Nemov Rumpus. I won't rehash these stories, but will say that Sexy Alexi can come over and tell me to hush up anytime.

Now the great Nadia Comaneci has piped up to say the Gymnastics Overlords need to get the scoring dodginess sorted once and for all. But I say no! More controversy! More appeals! More tantrums!

It's compelling television to watch these inverted-pyramid blokes fuming on the sidelines, wringing their chalk-encrusted hands; it makes them look even more flooded with testosterone and loveliness.
As for the ladies, I think we must continue our quest to make women's gymnastics even more reminiscent of a small-town Junior Beauty Pageant. We have the miniscule girls, the cheesy smiles, the glitter-drenched hairdos, the sequined lycra, the tears and backstabbing, but with the added bonus of elaborate acrobatics. Bring it on!

Who Wants To Be An Olympian?

Fair enough if you win. Just look at that gorgeous creature Kelly Holmes, she ran the most brilliant 800 metres last night and is quite rightly the toast of the town today. If you win gold then all is right with the world.

But if you cock it up, look out. Every heart in Britain broke on Sunday afternoon when Paula Radcliffe stopped running. Well, every heart in Britain that had nothing better to do than sit on their arse and watch a marathon for two and a bit hours. Ahem. I just wanted to jump in the telly and give her a hug and seventeen litres of Gatorade.

And then the BBC News came on, and that smug lady behind the desk reeled off the headlines, "Radcliffe fails in bid for gold."

Fails.

The press coverage that followed was largely sympathetic, but the annoying bit was the reams and reams of bloody analysis of Why Paula Failed. They blamed it on the course, the humidity, the sunshine, the boogie. They even put a gallery called Photos of Paula's Pain on the BBC.

Her tearful interview yesterday was handled pretty well. She was gently probed, So what happened Paula, talk us through that bit where you stopped running, what went wrong? It was just so sad to watch someone obviously so numb and devastated. Especially when she said "I know I've let you all down". Bloody hell. I think the interviewer wanted to give her a cuddle, too. Can you imagine having the expectation of a nation on your wee shoulders?

Meanwhile Down Under there's that whole palaver with Sally Robbins, the Chick That Stopped Rowing. Apparently she's done this kind of thing before, perhaps that's something the Olympic selectors should have considered beforehand. I think her teammates inital reaction was understandable, imagine all that pent up emotion at the time, I'd threaten to chuck her out too - it was the Olympic final! But what followed in the Australian media was shoddy. Graham articulates it very well over here and links to some dodgy pieces. While Robbins' teammates are now publically expressing their support, it makes me cringe that we're now getting the Prime Minister to chip in, along with Thorpey and Cathy Freeman. How much longer are we going to flog this dead canoe?

Don't you love this whole Olympic thing, when for two weeks every four years, everyone pretends to give a shit about running or rowing or K1234 kayaks? Everyone is an expert, everyone has an opinion from their lofty spot on the couch or behind the newsdesk. Everyone is so quick to curse or canonize our athletes. And then when it's all over, we'll go back to the football and cricket.

I know this stuff is all part of the territory for the athletes themselves, but sometimes I look at this circus and wonder who'd want to be an Olympian? Those medals don't even have chocolate inside em.

Hunk du Jour: Roger Federer

It's the final of the men's tennis today, Massu v Fish. Who the hell?

I lost what tiny scrap of interest I had in Olympic tennis as soon as Roger Federer bowed out in the second round.

I meant to write about young Rog at the time, but I was distracted by hunky Greek divers. So let us give the World Number One the space he deserves.

Roger endeared himself to me in the 2003 Wimbledon final when he turned on the tears after defeating Mark Philipoussis. Please don't write to tell me I have some sort of crying fetish.

PROS:

• His name is Roger. ROGER! Plenty of scope for smutty jokes.
• Swiss. Easy access to quality chocolate.
• Swiss. Clean, punctual and precise.
  

CONS:

• Roger jokes liable to getting lost in translation
• Swiss. Clean, punctual and precise. Sometimes you want things dirty and confused.
  

RATING:
3.5 kalamata olives out of 5.