Forgetting the fact that I’m a Londoner and really resent losing MY city for a whole entire bloody month (because don’t forget people we have the Paralympics for two weeks after the main event, and pretending they don’t exist is surely some kind of discrimination).
Or the fact that I’m having to pay for an event which a) I didn’t ask for b) I’m not interested in and c) I won’t benefit from in any way shape or form.
Putting all that aside, the reason I really hate the Olympics is because they’re making me feel fat; the selfish bastards.
Well not the Olympics exactly, but all these bloody look-at-me aren’t-I-great give-me-a-medal bloody Olympians; the selfish bastards.
I mean the cheek of it; you think they’d have better things to do wouldn’t you?
You see, for the last eight million years (or however long this communal "Won’t 2012 be grrrrreat" fluffing has be going on for) I can’t open a magazine, watch an advert, read a paper or even leave the house without being accosted by an image of some hard-bodied, lithe and lean, tanned and trimmed Lycra-clad super-being.
Sour-puss psychologists are always harping on about the damage that the fashion industry and women’s magazines do to young girls’ self-esteem by constantly bombarding them with unrealistic body images, but where are they now when I need them?
Where’s the campaign to help people like me who now feel ugly and inferior with our wobbly thighs, round tummies and big old boobs? And don’t even suggest getting Gok bloody Wan on the case; I don’t want to embrace my curves or pose for a naked photo -- I just want these bloody sports freaks to piss right off.
You see it’s not just that I, like most women I know, are prone to the odd bout of body insecurity/hatred/dysmorphia and that these images fuel these insecurities like a shell suit on a bonfire.
It’s the fact that for most of us, these body shapes are totally unachievable. Unlike the size zero brigade who simply starve themselves into slendission (see what I did there? Slender/submission innit?), these Olympians literally work their arses off (or in some cases, on) to look that goddamn hot.
Now, unless I suddenly find my sporting gene, quit my job and find some kind of geriatric-friendly sport (Pétanque?) to take up professionally, thus causing me to spend my entire working day working out, then I will NEVER have such hard abs, toned arms or taut inner thighs.
And that is a tragic fact my little brain REFUSES to process. So, what to do?
Well, I could go down the seize-the-day positive-thinking if-you-want-it-you-can-be-it route, and get a personal trainer, up my gym sessions, start necking power shakes and try and beat the odds.
Who knows, maybe I could at least get a bit sinewy?
Or I could opt for the slightly lazy very-greedy self-hating-journalist route, and write whingey features, send pissy tweets, binge eat ice cream and sob into empty ice cream tubs. No medals for guessing which one I’ll choose.