I think it's clear that the upcoming Olympics have brought the mems at the club up to a boil, as it were. The anticipation in our grey-flannelled world is almost palpable and toasts are shouted from all corners for our country's success. We realize that Canada is a northerly outpost as far as Summer Games go, and have come to expect exhockey players falling from bikes and wiping out rows of appalled spectators while some tiny grinning chap from Italy sweeps across the finish line. The Winter Games of a few years ago were a triumph, with Canada winning more gold than any other country, plus the closest hockey game of all time, phew.
Although I had always feared that the summer version may not be our natural venue, a small flame of optimism flickers now that I have clapped eyes on one or two of our specimens.
The club decided to throw open its doors to the local contingent of participants for London; we invited them downtown for our de rigueur overdone roast beef and Yorkshire pud. To our surprise, most turned us down, with various coaches saying something about strict diets and that sort of rubbish - almost un-Canadian, if you ask me. If eating what a dyspeptic hamster does gets one a medal, all well and good, but I will not be going down that road.
However, a few did make the repast, and so I was able to turn the baby blues on a small part of our team. One of the female javelin competitors sat next to the Brigadier and me at the corner table and I could not for the life of me take my eyes off her legs, as I have never seen such form and figure in my life. It became obvious that I had been struck dumb when I almost blinded myself with an empty fork to my eye. As I blinked madly with embarrassment, my wife said I was to stop gawking immediately. How awful, how could I, but I had never seen such muscle structure in my life.
When the Olympians left, two colonels who had been at school together started giving voice to an old argument as to which was the fastest in the 100-yard dash some 75 years ago. I am not sure there is a race by that name anymore, as this country has gone metric, removing all the imperial weights and measures for some time now. Never mind what the length of the race is, the two old classmates ordered the furniture cleared in the senior reading room so that a race could take place.
Several club doctors, spotting a litigious black hole, legged it before the battle began. Two rudely awakened elderly waiters pushed the chesterfields and wing-backed chairs flat against the walls, leaving a shiny waxed floor free of all obstructions.
The colonels removed their blazers and stood at one end of the great room as the Brigadier told them to take their marks. "Oh, Lord, my back," said one as he froze in the starter position. The other just stood there smiling triumphantly. "I win," he said, but the Brigadier pointed out helpfully that someone would have to complete the race to actually win. The first colonel said, "The back is gone, you see," to which someone shouted "Go!"
The semi-upright officer started shuffling down the course while the other one bleated about his spine and fell over. I thought to myself, this is not what the Games are about, trying to replay races from long ago. Rather, they are the showcase for the youth of today to meet others and compete in a world at peace. The original ideals of the ancient and modern Olympics are needed now more than ever.
The second colonel in his socks slowly did the splits on the shiny floor while shrieking painfully, still only halfway to the finish. [email protected]
