A HARD day’s night to watch London games

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.