Is there any more enjoyable state than that of mild querulousness in the face of something which, in the cosmic scheme, is of limited importance? Such is the joy the early stages of any sporting tournament offer the viewer: and should you be able to lob in a medium-to-high level of factual ignorance then, my friend, your pleasure is all but guaranteed.
To wit: a lengthy conversation about water polo in my sitting room ranged from the sport’s name itself, deemed to be misleading and ripe for replacement by swimball or water throw-lo, to how one ensured a level playing pool given the existence of the deep end.
If you have one, rope in a pal who has spent his or her entire career working for the advancement of a sport that is not represented at the Olympics. I was lucky enough to have a squash tsar in attendance and, in consequence, know more than I will ever need to about the unworthiness of golf, tennis, BMX bike-riding, rugby sevens and rhythmic gymnastics to hold a place at De Coubertin’s carnival.
However, we settled down and so, after an awful lot of faffing, did the BBC; pleased though I was to have such a comprehensive look round Hazel Irvine’s peach-and-beige studio with its panoramic views of Copacabana beach, reassured as I was by the footage of Clare Balding in a gilet and a tack-room, I was ready for some actual sport.
Over, then, to the Lagoa stadium for the rowing which, to my untrained eye, looked pretty leisurely. Certainly, the commentator had time to explain to us how the tournament works: heats, quarter-finals, semi-finals, culminating in a final. Phew. In these early rounds, one gets distracted by aesthetics and we very much liked the elegant fern painted on the New Zealand boat (imagine if our lot had one, we said; they could be called Fern Britain).
Time to flip over to the horse dancing, sorry, the dressage element of the three-day eventing, which takes place amid lovely flower displays and judges’ boxes done up to look like little park-keepers’ huts. Despite this enchantment, it was not a big draw; the stands were bereft of spectators despite the tremendous sight of Padraig McCarthy (go, Ireland!) doing some really top-notch trotting. A similarly threadbare crowd greeted Denmark’s and Iraq’s footballers in Brasilia; let’s hope that the Olympic organisers make good their promise to distribute unsold tickets to schoolchildren at future events.
No such problem at the women’s air rifle shooting, in which America’s Virginia Thrasher triumphed. Or, possibly, Virginia Triumph thrashed. The seasoned Olympic viewer must always remember that this is a marathon, not a sprint, and it’s important not to get too hung up on the detail. It is not given to us, after all, to have Hazel Irvine’s gigantic book of notes, festooned as it is with neon Post-its. Then again, nor are we in danger of having our surroundings messed about with in such cavalier fashion: perhaps the slickest manoeuvre thus far occurred in the opening minutes of the BBC’s broadcast. One minute, Hazel was flanked by an array of Olympic-themed scatter cushions so numerous that one suspects they arrived courtesy of the BHS fire sale; the next, they were gone. But where? And why? In the interests of transparency, I think we should be told.
