Our Olympic champions stirred finer emotions than rioting thugs
As one of Earth’s top-ranked hypochondriacs, I found one of the best things about the recent Olympiad was its efficacy as a diagnostic tool. Among the many ailments of which I live in fear is Sjögren’s syndrome. This auto-immune disease has various effects, such as joint pain and fatigue, that could be confused with typical signs of ageing. But one symptom that couldn’t is the inability – due to inflammation of the lachrymal glands – to cry. Having spent a recent fortnight drenched in a Niagara of Olympic- inspired tears, I am reassured there. Without a tally of exactly how often events in Paris had a hand in my reaching for the Kleenex, suffice it to report this: the frequency rendered the average 15-year-old boy a feckless dilettante. But why? On what imaginable grounds would a sad little middle-aged man sob remorselessly for 17 days at the efforts of complete...
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