SO the Olympics have been run, won and done.
Have to be honest here, just between you and me, that – just occasionally – having a little prostate problem actually works out.
When you are up and down a few times a night for a little relief here and there, it takes only a minute or two to flick on the telly in the lounge and have a quick gander at what might be happening at 2am, or 4am, or… yes, I’m sure you have the picture.
Now, I was pretty certain the French might have made a mess of the whole thing the couple of times I tuned in to catch the opening ceremony.
What a shemozzle.
And who the hell tries to hold an opening ceremony on a river?
This is the Olympics, not bloody Moomba.
Footy – proper footy – still isn’t an Olympic sport, although if soccer, tennis, golf and breakdancing (someone had to explain what that was) can earn gold-medal qualification, clearly footy should absolutely be there.
As an observer of human nature, I particularly look forward to every four years coming around so I can see just how stupid some people are prepared to be in pursuit of dreams, of glory and of five minutes of fame.
Who can forget Eddie the Eagle on the ski jump at Calgary, or Eric the Eel trying to drown himself in Sydney?
Which brings me back to that breakdancing thing.
Hand on my heart, I just happened to turn on the telly when Australia’s competitor was strutting her stuff (mind you, the only way I knew she was the Australian was the shirt she had on) and then hopping around like a Skippy nightmare.
I watched, bemused, thinking I had tuned into a hi-tech corroboree the way she was all over the place.
This performance should definitely have remained secret women’s business somewhere far away from the public eye.
Not only could I not fathom what she was trying to do, I still can’t work out what her name was.
Someone told me it was what sounded like “Ray Gunn”.
I have heard of Peter Gunn, I know they use ray guns in Star Wars movies, but why would she have a man’s name?
Way too complex for the old Whacker.
Clearly my cool quotient is a little lower than I might like (certainly the grandkids keep telling me I have no idea how the world turns these days).
But I have decided there is one sport which did escape me as a youngster in which I reckon I would have excelled: water polo.
It is brilliant.
If anything goes wrong, you belt someone or drag them under the water – or both.
This is where there has to be a slot for footy to slip into the Olympic family.
Flipperball is the Whacker’s suggestion – and solution.
No question we would have the biggest, meanest bunch of flipperballers who could thump their way straight through to the gold-medal match – and win that by knockout.
Because if you thought the water polo players this year were a tough bunch – women and men – you should have been in front of the telly with me back in ’56 for the Melbourne Games.
That was the year the Russians decided to assist Hungary’s alleged political instability by invading.
Then they met in the water polo – a match which would become known as the ‘blood in the water’ game.
It got so bad the game was called off and Hungary declared the winner.
And its team would go on to win the gold (the Russians won the invasion).
Now that’s the old Whacker’s idea of an international how-do-you-do competition.
And I reckon I might still have enough left in me to at the very least try out for the team.
If I don’t make it as a player, I will happily become Australia’s first flipperball coach and then you will really see some fun and games.
