I scare Olympic gold medalists
When I was a wee one (well, in Primary School at least) my family and my friend Chris's family had an annual tradition of going to the Commonwealth Trials/Olympic Trials/Transgender Knitting Trials or whatever else was going on at the Alexandra Stadium in Birmingham that year. The best part of this for me as a kid (even better than a picnic with Curly Wurlys) was going outside after the events to get autographs from the athletes. I'd had quite a few successes in my time (I once snuck into the athlete's section while Chris distracted the guard with tales of needing to go wee-wee and got Linford Christie and Colin Jackson at the same time) but this one time I saw the prize. My idol. Sebastian Coe (now Baron Coe of Ranmore in the County of Surrey).

Now to those of you who know him as a bit of a smarmy wanker (aka a Tory MP) you have to realise that to me this man represented everything great about being British. The plucky spirit, the grand tradition of lanky white men beating the world at middle distance (in the days before the Kenians and Ethiopians spoiled it by being able to run faster), Roger Bannister, Chariots of Fire, stiff upper lip, Empire, the Queen, scones and jam, all that shite. And here was the man himself in the flesh.

Unfortunately what I failed to remember is that Mr Ranmore in the County of Surrey had actually lost his trial. By quite a margin. So he was a tad peeved. As a result when a weedy voice, tinged with hope and expectation, piped up "Seb! Seb!" he bolted. Boom, like that he was gone. I found out that day that a heartbroken 11 year old's legs simply can't compete with a trained athlete's.

To this day I can't help but look on that day and feel a deep pang of regret.




I should have shouted "why couldn't you run that fast inside the stadium you daft twat?"
(Captcheese, Sun 28 May 2006, 23:00, Reply)