Something strange is happening in the world of sport. The all consuming monoculture of football appears to be losing it tyranical hold over the backpages
London 2012 may have ended, but what it's created will endure for generations.
This is What it means to be British - To take part in a race, Hoping to win - But expecting a last-place finish. Yes, this is British -
As I type this, I should probably be wearing a pair of those cheesy Olympic-five-ring sunglasses, with a fake Union Jack tattoo on my ankle and a cuddly Wenlock tucked under my arm. I'm not, for the record, having just about got my love affair with London 2012 in check, but it's been something of a head vs heart battle... week two of the greatest Olympic games ever (they are, I don't care if it's not cool to say it) has been as brilliant as the first.
The following is not taken from a reputable news outlet. And there is also an excessive use of bold.
I like to consider myself a bone-deep cynic in the finest traditions of this nation. Grumbling is the badge of all my tribe; a positive, life-affirming species of grumble, rich with undertones of bloody-minded satisfaction.
After the flags have come down in Regent Street, the athletes have departed the village, and the nation reflects on Britain's performance as both host and competitor, a particular observation may dawn on public and punditry alike. The extent of Team GB's medal table standing may well be due to the disproportionate success of its women athletes.
Skimpy outfits, made-up faces, smoothly waxed bodies. These are some of the images that come into my head when I think of the Olympics. I'm certainly not sporty in any way myself. So perhaps I'm going about it all wrong when I look at athletes, especially female ones, and wonder why their bodies are so hairless and why their leotards and sports bras seem to barely cover their flesh.
Great Britain has been predicted to win 27 Gold's at the 2012 Olympics. Hopefully the British Athletes will enjoy their best Olympics for more than a century and challenge for third in the medal table in London.
Laura Robson strikes me as centred, sorted and secure sportswoman capable of taking criticism in her athletic stride. Sadly, there is a body of evidence suggesting that ill-judged remarks only add unwanted and unbearable pressure to the strain of competition for other female athletes.
Did I miss the collective time-travel mission back to the 1950s this week? I only ask because a glance at a choice selection of headlines from the past seven days certainly suggests so. Either that, or someone (a man, presumably) decided it was time to sweep all the advancements women have made over the past few decades under the proverbial carpet. (Swept by a woman in a gingham pinny and rollers, I sure hope.)
Seventeen years as one of the UK's top trainers, this week I was faced yet again with a hopeful smile and literally the weight of expectation aimed at...
You'd have been forgiven for thinking The Sun had taken over the national press this week what with all the column inches devoted to British women's breasts... As thousands of women counted down the days and hours to discover the official line on the potential ticking time-bombs sitting within their bodies, arguments raged over whether it was fair the tax payer foot the bill for the removal of the PIP implants and in amongst it all we appeared to gloss over the more important issue at hand: why so many thousands of women, year after year, feel compelled to have surgery in the first place.