I’m worried about my dad. We’ve been watching the Olympics in our house since it started – not the ones in ancient Greece, I’m just on about these particular games in London – and I think dad is getting a little too excited. On top of that his language, already coarse, is getting worse.
He sits there staring wild eyed at the tv, yelling at the atheletes. He calls it encouragement, I call it abuse. I think that they could probably hear him in the stadium when he’s shouting. Come on you !”£$%^* lazy +_)(*&^ move your %&^$, he yells.
During the boxing tournament he’s punching the air, dodging and weaving; during the cycling his legs are pumping and he moves side-to-side and during the rowing he rocks back and forth as if he’s in the boat and pulling an oar with the rest of them. If anyone was to look through the window they’d think he was insane!
The worst moment was in the final event of the heptathalon – the 800 metres. Jessica Ennis was running for Britain and dad was with her every step of the way. As she broke clear at the front, dad was going crazy “Go on Jess, go on!” he cheered. My big sister Jess was sleeping on the floor at this point and jumped up to see what dad was yelling her name out for. The poor old girl didn’t know what he wanted her to do so she started going back and forth to the door and to him. “What dad?” she asked in confusion, having just woken up, “where do you want me to go?” Me and my brother Alf were in absolute hysterics watching her. I laughed that hard I thought my belly would burst. Jess didn’t speak to either of us for the rest of the day. hehehehe