Forget heavy-handed special treatment for some approach

ITWAS always going to be the case, once the Olympics were under way and the taking part (not to mention the winning) got started, that background problems, carps and teething troubles would pale into insignificance beside the shiny gold, silver and bronze moments that have come thick as a cyclist’s thighs and fast as Usain Bolt.

Speaking as someone whose lifetime achievement in games was to render a gym teacher helpless with mirth by losing her knicker elastic on the hockey pitch, I take my hat off to those who put in the hours of blood, toil, tears and sweat it takes to reach this level of attainment through team spirit and individual dedication.

Rather than prove wrong those (myself included) who expressed doubts about the organisation and orientation of these Games, the actual sporting programme of the last fortnight has merely underlined the fact that their true significance lies not with politicians, over-dominant corporations, out-of-touch administrators or inefficient service companies but with the athletes, their back-up teams, their fans and the real volunteers.

Of course, such huge projects couldn’t take place without corporate sponsorship and support and massive back-up but if London 2012 has taught Britain anything, it’s surely to aim for a less heavy-handed, preferential approach and place immediate emphasis all year round, every year, on encouraging those who want to give their best for the best of reasons. And make it easier for those who really want to see them on the big occasion, rather than reserving precious seats for those and such as those who don’t give much of a damn.

It also kicks the over-privileged, over-paid and over-rated world of much professional sport right over the bar, which has been raised higher in the past two weeks than we had any right to expect. Never mind talent and hard work. There was also charm, humility, articulacy and unselfishness (and recognition of the vital contribution of others behind the scenes). Of course some Olympians have money spent on them and their sports. Of course some of them – including our own Olympic tennis champion Andy Murray (and doesn’t that sound great?) – are already highly-paid full-timers. But don’t they all, over each discipline, wear it better than those whose trademarks are arrogance and a misplaced sense of entitlement?

And while it might be a bit kailyard of us to put a kilt on the medal table re the Scots-related contribution to Team GB’s haul, I also love the fact that Yorkshire has made an indelible mark.

If (to quote J M Barrie) there are few more impressive sights in the world than a Scotsman on the make, the same could be said for a Yorkshireman or woman demonstrating what true grit looks like. I admit it, I’m biased. Apart from my mother, all my blood relatives reside in the People’s Republic of SouthYorkshire and I will not hear a word against a place that combines rugged beauty with eccentricity and determination almost as effectively as Scotland does.

What’s not to like about a region whose idea of praise is not the outpouring of “amaz- ings”, “incredibles” and “unbelievables” of telly pundits, never lost for words but all too frequently lost for the right ones. You know you’ve done well in the Ridings when someone says: “It’ll do.” Lord Coe could have told them that. He’s from Sheffield.

The population of Yorkshire is currently estimated at 5.3 million. The population of Scotland is around 5.2 million. Rather than get their Union Jack knickers in a twist about Scots athletes singing/not singing the national anthem, the London political elite might soon find itself having to deal with an independentminded, uppity bunch of newly-confident northern contrarians rather closer to home than they realised.

PS I spent much of last Sunday calling into question the parentage of those who had inadvertently, I’m sure, led me to believe that Olympic men’s tennis matches were all played over three sets. By the timeAndy Murray had gone two sets up in the final (I was rushing in and out from the garden as I couldn’t stand the strain of actually watching it), I thought it was all over. It was another 10 games before I could say: “It is now.”

I’m on a hiding to nothing with Federer v Murray. If Federer wins, my husband sulks. If Murray wins, my mother sulks. Me, I take refuge in drink, which will surprise no-one. During this year’s Wimbledon final, the tension was so unbearable I was half cut before the end of the first set.

This time round, I did pay my own little tribute to personal sacrifice and self discipline.

It was well into the third set before I succumbed to a case of too much Shiraz. Or too much of a case of Shiraz. For me, that’s as close to the Olympic ideal as I’m likely to get.