YOU will not be surprised to hear that the Olympics chez Ramaswamy is a viewing marathon. In terms of length, commitment and ceremonial pomp, it’s like the three-day equestrian event – with dressing gowns instead of dressage and a remote control instead of reins.
The Olympics are so massive in my house that until I was 18 I thought they were on all the time, like Friends. My entire childhood took place against a backdrop of Russian gymnasts twirling ribbons, soundtracked, for some warped reason, by the Bullseye theme tune. Sorry folks, but I never said that inside of the head of a 1980s child was a pretty sight. Scientists have, in fact, discovered that it looks exactly like a scrambled Rubik’s cube.
Anyway, I still believe there is a stadium far, far away where athletes are forced to pole vault, long jump and canoe 24/7, presided over by Jim Bowen and a cow in a stripy polo shirt. Perhaps we should televise it, get Mitt Romney to front it and call it I’m an Olympian, Get me Out of Here.
I was in Poland for the opening ceremony, which meant watching it in a boiling hot underground ‘English football bar’ in Krakow. By the time Zambia appeared for the stadium march, the only people left standing were me, my British cohort and a couple of Danes, briefly united in our love of the NHS, the elasticity of Rowan Atkinson’s face and, erm, vodka. By the time the cauldron was lit, the smell of Cif had taken over and chairs were being stacked. “Please go home after this song,” the staff begged as Hey Jude’s first of a hundred na-na-na-na’s struck up.
On my return, I dutifully phoned Ma Ramaswamy. But for reasons beyond my control (the badminton), I called a day late. I assumed Ma R would be beside herself with worry. I assumed wrong.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I hope I didn’t worry you.”
“Yes!” Ma R shrieked, clearly talking to the TV. I heard cheering. “I have to go,” she went on. “The 400m freestyle is starting.” I began to protest. The line went dead.
I skulked to the sitting room, where I found C glued to the badminton. Again. “My mum’s watching the swimming and won’t talk to me,” I said gloomily.
“Yes!’ C shrieked, shaking a triumphant fist at the women’s doubles.
It didn’t take long for us to kick off the Olympics 2012 row that is currently taking place up and down the country. It’s centred on this fearsome and new-fangled (to me, anyway) red button. Supposedly it allows you to watch whatever event is currently taking place. In fact it is a cruel way of bringing discord into your home whilst announcing that you’ve missed the gymnastics. Again. “I want to watch the swimming,” I said.
“But look at this GB player,” C craftily replied. “His parents are from Kerala – a south Indian, like you… You should watch.”
“That’s a dirty trick,” I said, stealing a glance at my brethren in badminton. “You know I love the swimming.”
And so we wrestled on, fists clenched, fingers hovering over the red button. It’s a dangerous game, practically an event in itself with the right sponsor and some good kit. Press the button too fast and you miss what’s on the main channel. Linger too long and you end up watching archery again. Anyway, in the end we missed both our events. I’m sure there’s a moral lesson to be learned, something to do with fair play, co-operation and sportsmanship. But I haven’t got time. The diving’s about to start. n