LOSING THE RUN OF HIMSELF

I VOWED I wouldn't watch the Olympics, having feasted on football earlier in the summer and for the last 25 years. I mean, I'm supposed to be working on new material for my Edinburgh Festival show and I'm running out of time. The little puritan in my head who regulates the amount of hours I spend on leisure has just informed me that I've used up my allocation for the next 25 years. Anyway, the modern Games are corrupt and devalued disfigured by freak sports and they're on too late? Aren't they?

Despite hiding the remote control, my resolve was short lived. This is because I am weak and need to bebong and remembered where I hid it. Mind you, I had no problem ignoring the opening ceremony. I hate opening ceremonies in general. If I had 10 years to prepare and an unlimited budget, I could have produced the ghosts of dead Olympians and the secrets of Fatima. As it was, we got the bog standard dazzling spectacular and Celine Dion. I know this because a friend told me.

I hate marvelling at crap. (That's why I'd never go to a show with Michael Flatley in it, for example. I would probably enjoy it too much. All that ridiculous dancing. It's something you could train a monkey to do. I have no idea why Michael does it. He's just a big show off. And I hate him. They could have had the Artane Boys' Band in Atlanta for the price of a few haircuts. A couple of uplifting tunes from the lads would have been more than sufficient.

Anyway, no sooner was this tasteless irrelevance over and done with, no sooner were the athletes rehydrated like so many TV dinners to be devoured by the watching billions, than I found myself sneaking the odd glance at Ceefax for the updates. Just a few minutes a day at first. I couldn't resist it. But I was on the slippery slope. Soon I was tuning in to the highlights and exchanging gossip and slander with friends in the pub.

Then Michelle Smith came along and ruined everything. Every time I turned on the telly she was in the pool, threshing away for Ireland. For ages I thought she was cheating. I was sure she was wearing arm bands. And then I realised, no, they were her shoulders. Like the whole of Ireland and most of Britain (who adopted her when it became apparent that they had brought lead balloons to Atlanta by mistake), I was hooked. I knew I had a problem. I couldn't start the day without a fix a bit of judo, hockey anything. I couldn't think of anything else. I just lived for the next event. Michelle's races were the ultimate high, a rush greater than any orgasm or bungee jump.

She is an incredible woman. I half expected to see her out on the track too and on a horse and in the ring and in a cape fighting crime. During the second week, I became gaunt and withdrawn. I started stealing from my friends not for the sake of the metaphor but because they have nicer stuff than me.

IN normal circumstances, I have to admit, I wouldn't be watching the swimming at all. It's not the most glamorous of sports. Think of all the verrucas they must get.

Of course, the freestyle is the only type of swimming that should be allowed in the first place. Really, there's no need for silly variations like the butterfly a form of Japanese torture or the backstroke. Swimming backwards is about as clever as reversing around Hockenheim in the German Grand Prix. You don't see anybody running backwards around the track (apart from Sonia in the 5,000m). It's ridiculous. You might as well have a see who can hold their breath under water for the longest time" competition or a diving between someone's legs without touching them" event.

I believe the Olympic movement should concern itself only with straightforward sports, ones that reflect stages in the development of mankind like, for example, running very fast indeed, throwing things very far, lifting very heavy things, punching people. The long jump is acceptable, but why bother with the Pythonesque triple jump? It must go. It makes a mockery of the ancient ideals. And it's no surprise that Britain's leading contender in this field was Mr Bean.

Gymnastics must go too. I know it's popular. I know it's entertaining, but it belongs in a different arena. It's not a sport but some sort of performance art for the malnourished. Steroids should be compulsory for some of the competing elves. It should be staged in an art gallery or a mental institution or ideally outlawed altogether. If gymnastics stay, there's a chance mime will be included in the next Olympics. And juggling. And a sausage eating competition.

Anyway, I don't trust sports that you can't measure with a stopwatch or a tape, sports that rely on the subjective judgments of the men in blazers.

The dodgy scoring system is the first reason why boxing must go. Secondly, professional boxing is obviously a superior contest. It's pointless having sports in the Olympic Games that have far greater competitions elsewhere.

Football has the World Cup, tennis has Wimbledon, cycling has the Tour de France, show jumping has the Horse Show in the RDS. Abolish the ball sports and leave the pets at home. The ancient Greeks would be turning in their graves if they saw somebody getting a gold medal for best scrubbed horse. If things keep going the way they are, we'll have a prize for the biggest carrot too. The Olympics are simply too big now. In trying to be all embracing, they've ended up being unwieldy. No city will have the capacity to host the Games in future. They'll take four years to complete if we don't curtail the number of sports and the corresponding number of officials.

If Atlanta had problems with transport, can you imagine how some where like Dublin would fare? Hello, will you take me to the archery?" Sorry love, I'm going back to the garage. There's one coming behind."

We'll never host the Games because we'll never have the facilities. The only Olympic sized pool in Ireland is Lough Neagh. The only parallel bars are drinking establishments. We do have, on the other hand, better bombs than Atlanta.

I stayed up to watch the closing ceremony. I hate closing ceremonies. But now that it's all over, I can begin the process of rehabilitation. I can get back to work and I think I know what this Edinburgh show might be about.