A HARD day’s night to watch Lon­don games

Midweek Sport - - FRONT PAGE -

EVEN I can find some­thing to ad­mire at the Olympics.

Tremen­dous ath­leti­cism. Re­lent­less de­sire. Pure, bloody minded stub­born­ness.

Jes­sica En­nis’s in­cred­i­ble six-pack. Her sublime skills in seven events. And her lovely Sh­effield-built camel’s toe.

Those posh girl row­ers that we’re not quite sure if they fancy each other or not. Eigh­teen-year-old Laura Rob­son’s skirts. And ladies beach vol­ley­ball, a sport quite lit­er­ally in­vented for men who like to hand­ball them­selves at least twice around the javelin be­fore get­ting out of bed in the morn­ing.

Yes, let’s all clap and cheer for what are and were and will be the most fab­u­lous British achieve­ments.

And then, once we’re done, we’ll get to Sir Paul C***ing McCart­ney. Jee. Zuss. When is that Thumbs Aloft c*** go­ing to call it a day? Se­ri­ously?

As a born and bred Merseysider (Wir­ral, not “The” Wir­ral, now you ask), there is noth­ing to make my skin squeeze tighter nor my chest clench quicker than the open­ing chords of a Bea­tles track on the wire­less.

But equally there is noth­ing more f***ing te­dious than the sight of an old man with dyed hair leap­ing around like a f***ing

Sir Macca F***ing c**t!

teenager while his clearly em­bar­rassed grown up daugh­ter looks on.

Now I’m no Bea­tle, but if I was caught by my step-daugh­ter Jess danc­ing on the hog like Sir Paul, she’d have me shot on sight – and with good rea­son, too.

For f***’s sake, and for the last time, Let It F***ing Be.

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