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With my running shoes through Old Sydney Town. Or, "Hello, my name is Damian."
You folks are well known for knocking out most agreeable bottles of plonk so it was with some dismay that I read in this morning's Times about a rather sour vintage that appeared in the Sydney Morning Herald this week.
Something utterly jaw-dropping has happened at these Games . . . the Brits have overtaken Australia on the medals table.
Once, not so long ago, Australians were proud people who walked tall with jutted jaws. The Poms were a source of amusement, a fallen imperial master weeping over a dog-eared scrapbook, its tattered images of Steve Redgrave, Seb Coe, Mary Rand and those five blokes from Chariots of Fire fading by the day . . .
There follows a rather sorrowful section on how Aussies would patronise their poor Pommy colleagues. The article ends thus:
What really hurts is the knowledge that, when they were down on their scabby knees pleading for any sporting morsel to be thrown their way, we came to their rescue. Here you go, poor Poms, have our coaches, our programs, our secrets to success . . .
Strewth.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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With my running shoes through Old Sydney Town. Or, "Hello, my name is Damian."
