The BBC Coverage of The Olympic Games Is just Too Much!! Blanket Coverage Leads to Suffocation!!

Great shows last week kid. Great shows, which brought back memories of the great depression, when an old codger, in a battered model T Ford, was stopped on route 66 out of Derry and charged with vagrancy. The codger, who insisted his name was Tom Joad, was found to be pissed on the grapes of wrath. "GOLD!" yelled Tommy my cat. "Another gold medal for team GB. Britain, has hit the mother lode. What a bonanza! It's a veritable Klondike! GOLD!!! Yet another Gold medal for team G!" I dusted the baby grand accordion, breathing heavily through my nose, yet saying nothing. "Stall the weddin' " yelled Tommy. "What's got up your hooter, why are you not cheering on team GB?" I spun round, duster in hand and yelled, "How can you sit there and give credence to an Olympic games, which is clearly under the influence of, DRUGS?" Tommy reeled back like Mel Gibson at a Bar Mitzvah and cried, "How dare you! How dare you, accuse the athletes of being on drugs!" "I speak NOT of the athletes!" I yelled. "Every athlete is as drug free as Tom Cruise, at a Scientology, Saturday night, fish fry." I quickly assembled an Ikea, flat pack podium, mounted it and roared, "J'accuse the sports commentators of broadcasting, while being high as a kite on illegal substances, which induce frantic excitement, bordering on hysteria." A small worried frown, with a ball, played over Tommy's face. "Have you heard them?" I yelled. "Have you heard the over-the-top, excited shrieks, yells and screams coming from our sports presenters? Every other word is, ""stunning, amazing, stupendous and world beating. I heard one drug fuelled moron scream out in a frenzy, "Britain doesn't have a competitor in this race, but if we did, I'm sure they would shatter the world record and win by a mile!" "So they gloat a little," said Tommy. "Let them have their day. The games got off to a bad start. Remember Boris Johnson, hanging from a wire, like a male version of Barbara Windsor?" "It's not just that," I moaned. "The BBC coverage is just too much. Wall to wall coverage and instant replays ad infinitum and ad nauseum. And, being ad free, no commercials to break up the continual, running, swimming, cycling, and leppin'. Oh, what I would give to see the loathsome tenor from, Go Compare. The Olympic games," I shrieked, "is nothing but a glorified school sports day! The BBC has lost all sense of balance. Blanket coverage leads to suffocation. I can't take anymore!" I yelled. "Tommy, in the name of Allah, put on a DVD of "The Quiet Man" or, "2,000 leagues under the sea". "NO!" roared Tommy. "Sebastion Coe, has worked hard for seven years. You will not be excused from the Olympic games. You will sit there for three weeks and enjoy it like the rest of us." "Joe Mahon!" I yelled. "Put on Joe Mahon! How I would love to see the bold Joe shear a sheep, or try his hand at quilt making." "NO!" cried Tommy. "These Olympic games cost eleven billion pounds and you will sit there and enjoy them, or I will tie you to the chair." I gave in. I sat in a stupor, as a voice, quivering with hysterical excitement screamed, "And here comes the British competitor in eighth place! What an amazing, stupendous performance from an athlete, giving his all for Britain. And LOOK! Boris Johnson, has left his seat and given the glorious Briton a big, wet kiss on the mouth. What a story he'll have to tell his grandchildren, if he's that way inclined. Simply amazing, stupendous, brilliant, magical! Now, sit back in your seat and enjoy the whole excited, amazing, stupendous race over again, in slow motion!"