Mashed couch potatoes

You're an auld gem Sonia O'Sullivan. A towering, shiny, brilliant, gutsy, glorious, gorgeous, galloping, wonderful, magnificent, marvellous 24 carat sparkly gem. Are we emotional? Too right we are. Damned if we can remember an Irish sporting display that left a bigger knob in our throats, one that was nigh on impossible to swallow. Humbled to know you Sonia, blessed to have you wearing our colours.

Tell you another thing: all that glisters isn't gold. Your silver medal shone so brightly up on that podium we had to fiddle with the contrast on our tellies. Loved your smile too, the one that beamed: "Atlanta? Never heard of the place. Cheerio ghosts of Olympics past, go haunt someone else." Of course by the time Pat Hickey smothered you with hugs and kisses during the medal ceremony we could hardly see. "There's not a dry eye in the house," as RTE's Tom "blurred vision" McGurk put it after the race. True enough Sonia, we ran out of hankies too 'round my way, and that was when you were only introduced to the crowd.

By the end? We were more shattered than you, and that's no lie. But listen Sonia, we love you lots . . . but please: stop drifting backwards in the middle of major races because me and the rest of the nation were downing hefty doses of Prozac by the time we hit lap five.

"Sonia's struggling . . . she's going back through the field," says an alarmed Steve Cram on the BBC. "She's drifted back a bit," says a solemn George Hamilton over on RTE, in a I-hate-to-tell-you-this-Ireland-but-I'm-just-doing-my-job kinda way. "She needs to get back in touch," he reckons, "she's 12th of the 15 at the moment . . . this is worrying with eight laps to go," he adds and we scream "SHUT UP GEORGE . . . she'll be grand . . . won't she God?".

Oooh. "She seems to be drifting back a little again, as Wami injects a little pace," says George, ignoring our pleas. "I'm worried for Sonia . . . every time someone increases the pace she drifts back," says the Beeb's Brendan Foster in a remarkably and terrifyingly similar observation. Don't care. We love her anyway. Even if she doesn't finish till Thursday it doesn't matter, we'll always love her, she's a sporting colossus, she's still given us more pleasure and more thrills and more . . . oh Jaysus, here she comes again.

"Sonia's back in contention," howls Cram. "Well, if that was a little crisis perhaps it's now passed," says Georgie I-don'twant-to-get-your-hopes-up-but-it-appears-to-me-that-Sonia's-right-as-rain-again Hamilton. But George, Gabriela Szabo looks awesome.

Oh Sonia, we're dizzy from this rollercoaster trip you've taken us on this past decade. We know there's magic in them there legs but there are so many knots in the nation's tummy by now we're not sure if we can take . . . ooooooh here she comes again. She's on Szabo's shoulder. Only 200 metres to go. Can't look. Change channels. Ooh, Teletubbies. Go back. One hundred to go. Nope, can't take it. Garden. Roses? Lovely. Back indoors. Eurosport. Fencing. Eh? RTE. George's hyperventilating. Fifty to go. Please God, Allah, Michael Flatley, whoever's in charge up there. Szabo. Szabo. Hate ya, hate ya, but . . . you're astounding. A stunner of a runner. Szabo? Gold. Sonia? Gold. In all but name. Demons? Exorcised. Banished. If they turn up in Cobh? "Sorry lads, there's no room at the inn - now shag off."

Silver. "But it's worth its weight in gold," says TJ Kearns, beautifully, on RTE. Loved TJ. A lot. None of this "focus, focus, focus - in the zone" psychobabble that we usually have inflicted upon us and, at the end of the day Brian, means absolutely nothing. TJ? Just a gentle, quietly spoken dose of good sense and a genuine thrilled-for-ya-Sonia sprinkling of passion. Give that man a medal.

If only we'd listened to Kay, Sonia's next door neighbour in Cobh, we'd never have worried. "You said she'd win a medal," said the RTE man after the race. "I did," said Kay. "You were right," he said. "I was, I was very right," she said. No doubts. None at all. Shame on us for worrying. Doubtya Sonia. Love ya.