If it is possible to have such a thing as a spectacular Bronze Medal, then that was what the Team GB Men’s Gymnastic Team achieved yesterday, not only because it was the country’s first team medal in the sport for a hundred years, but also the manner in which it was won.

Over The Moon – one of the GB Eventing Team jumps them into second place overall

I was lucky-enough to arrive home in time to switch-on to see that last discipline, the Floor, live on TV.  At that point, Team GB were in fourth place and needed to better their equivalents from Ukraine, who were on the Rings, by at least point-two on each performance to get into the medals.  To put that in perspective, that was the Gymnastic competition equivalent of me giving Usain Bolt two metres start in a hundred-metre dash – and I’m not only flat-footed, but old enough to be his Grandad.

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Day two brought the first medals for Team GB, so congratulations to Lizzie Armitstead and Rebecca Addlington, the latter particularly for cleverly managing the media’s over-expectations, and to the crowds both in the rain-soaked Mall and later in the Aquatic Centre for roaring them both on.

Lizzie Armitstead kicked off Team GB’s medal haul with silver in the road cycling

The performance of the day for me came from the Gymnasts, again supported by a full-house at Greenwich.   Gymnastics is one of those sports I really only watch at Olympic time, and so it is easier to judge progress when viewed at four-yearly intervals.  When I watched the Eastern European teams in the ‘seventies, it was difficult to imagine how this country could ever compete with the standards of Comaneci, Tourischeva and the particularly innovative Olga Korbut.  When we did put our best gymnasts forward to the games, they were usually plucky girls who smiled and tried their best despite knowing they would be totally outclassed by the girls from Russia in their red leotards.

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And so we moved on to Day One of competition, with high-hopes for a golden start in the Road Race.  As it turned-out, that wasn’t to be, the result of which was the first reflected glint of light from the sharp tips of the BBC’s fangs.

The Peloton rushes past the Palace just after the start of the Mens Road Race

Not from the Olympic Sports presentation which, with the possible exception of a certain ex-England striker-turned-pundit, is sympathetic to the joys and sorrows of sporting endeavour – probably because the majority of them have themselves “been there and done that.”  Unfortunately, there are two strands of BBC coverage, and the other one, the 24-hour news part, is already bristling with negativity.

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Like half the UK population, and probably one in seven of all of the people on this planet, we settled down approaching nine pm Greenwich Time to watch the only Opening Ceremony broadcast from these islands that the majority of us will witness during our lifetimes.  Three and a half hours later, as the last athletes were being herded away from the lit cauldron, we drifted off to bed feeling the same warm glow from that eternal flame, after what turned-out to be an absolute triumph for its creator.

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Is this what Jimi Hendrix meant by Purple Haze?

Our personal evening was made all the more enjoyable by a very thoughtful option provided on the red button – the ability to watch the coverage sans-commentary.  This had been sought, and found, within nano-seconds of discovering that the BBC’s commentator was Huw Edwards, a news presenter who winds me up simply by sitting in a studio looking into a camera.  He doesn’t even have to open his mouth to have me reaching for the remote, so the prospect of several hours of his particular brand of snide commentary, delivered in pseudo-dulcet welsh tones, did not appeal.  As it turned-out, experiencing the ceremony in the same way as those lucky 80,000 actually in the stadium was by far the better option.

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Well, here we go – a fortnight of wall-to-wall Olympic wikifacts and every possible BBC “journalist” hunting for clangers, and by the looks of this not having to look too far:

Jeremy Drops a Clanger

All I have heard today is that none of ‘em can find out who is going to light the flame tonight – good, there needs to be at least one thing that can be kept away from their intrusive snouts.   My money’s on Her Majesty, by the way, or would have been if her odds hadn’t been slashed by William Hill this morning.   After all, she’s the only one who could possibly get past 18,000 troops and into the stadium with a lighter in her handbag.

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