Trying to conquer my Olympic addiction

Every four years, as I get older, I promise myself that I won’t stay up until 3 am, glued to the television as yet another Olympic sport gets my attention.

In part, it’s guilt — I come from a generation for whom watching television for pleasure is a bit of a sin. In the 1950s, we were one of the last families on my street to get a set, at a time when daytime television was pretty much unknown, 24-hour programming was light years away, and the BBC

Children’s Hour was definitely aimed at making you a better adult.

Flash forward to the 21st century — the boy has become a grandfather, and my 50-inch wafer thin television set doesn’t need 10 minutes to “warm up” and can access over 200 channels at the flick of a button, all without my leaving my armchair.

Ideal conditions for an addict.

I guess it all started with the Beijing Olympics in 2008. Given the time difference, most opportunities to view events in the amazing Bird’s Nest sports stadium and other venues happened late at night or in the early hours of the morning.

And of course, I was hooked.

Then it was London’s turn, and by the opening ceremony in 2012 I was firmly hooked, watching everything from cycling to athletics.

And now it’s Rio de Janeiro’s turn to feed my need.

Yes, I stayed up until 3 am this past Saturday to watch the incomparable Mo Farrah win the 10,000 meters DESPITE FALLING OVER.

Yes, I was transfixed as Jason Kenny battled it out with fellow Briton Callum Skinner for the gold medal in the cycling individual sprint.

No, I didn’t watch UK golfer Justin Rose win gold, simply because I agree with my late father’s description of golf as “a good walk spoiled.”

No, I didn’t watch Britain’s best male tennis player for 70 years win his second consecutive singles gold.

I like Andy Murray. He personifies, for me, sport and striving to be the best. He was a kid when a madman entered his primary school in Dunblane, Scotland, and massacred 16 children and one teacher before shooting himself.

Somehow, Murray has managed to combine a determination to survive with extraordinary talent as a tennis player. Only weeks before the Rio Olympics, he won the prestigious men’s singles title at Wimbledon, before successfully defending his Olympic title on Sunday night.

Yet I couldn’t watch — it’s all down to genetics. Britons are incapable of watching their tennis heroes — until Murray came along, it inevitably ended in tears. So I watched Saint Andy win one set, crumble terrifyingly to lose the second, and in my usual way announced “I can’t watch this” and went to bed.

Of course that meant he went on to win the gold medal in four sets.

As I write, Team GB has actually overtaken China to jump into second place on the medals table. But we won’t talk about that, will we? Just allow me a beaming smile here in the office for a few hours, at least.

PS: I still haven’t watched Game of Thrones, and I guess I never shall.