once an Olympian, always an Olympian

Papua-New Guinea's only entry in the Judo, Raymond Ovinou?
His Games all over in 43 seconds.
By Ippon.
Gold.
Arrives on Easy Street inside a minute.
Living the dream, and living it large party-style back at the village for the next fortnight.
Goddamit - why didn't we think of that?
Once an Olympian, always an Olympian.

completely normal

Party Cone Pullers,

I'm a decrepit enough old sports journo to recall the story of Lisa Curry walking into the swimming dressing sheds at the Los Angeles Olympics, and her competitors being shocked and frightened by this massive, muscle-ripped, hugely imposing Amazon of a woman as she stripped off - and yet - she won nothing.
Everything old, is new again.
So, the Olympic pool in Rio is awash with every kind of snaky substance known to man.
Powerful pharmaceuticals of the go fast variety?
Surely not?
At least the Chinese media are on the money when they describe Australia as "on the fringes of civilisation":

The naughty one is on the right, although the one of the left looks like he's off his chops, also.
The bloke in the middle is completely normal.

struth, cobber

Metallurgists,

While I have the utmost respect and admiration for The Great Dr Charlesworth, and his storied contribution to Australian hockey over the decades, his stellar 47 first-class cricket matches and three Sheffield Shields, his fine ten-year career as a good pinko Parliamentarian for Perth, and his sideline as a General Practitioner - really, now...
It's plain for all to see that Rugby Sevens is soft.
Gold is soft; pliable, malleable, ductile.
Field Hockey is a cruel, vicious, violent game.
Anything else you want to tell us, Ric?
http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-08-09/womens-rugby-sevens-win-labelled-soft-by-former-hockey-player/7709610
Struth, cobber.
How about Gold! Gold for Straya! Gold! Norman May style?
Next time with a bit more patriotic fervour.
Don't over think it, me ol' mate.
Shut up, and go get some - any way you can.

no perfect tens for nothing

Fellow Martians,

Men's and women's Gymnastics is like some kind of strange, secret ritual, largely conducted and kept behind closed doors.
An arcane game peopled, as it is, by frighteningly driven folk and weird, kooky aficionados, who all know that nobody remembers who came second.
Maybe that's why they only allow it to be shown on the television once every four years.
And the intricate complexity of it all, the myriad of technicalities, and the chaotic scoring system almost defies the imagination.
That's why they have long-experienced highly-qualified judges and stewards who lay down the law and do their job very well, but over the course of a six-hour day on the judgin' bench, can't help but show their humanity, and play favourites.
Don't get me wrong, it's not as if it's not good to watch.
Most people know and enjoy when they see excellence.
The sheer strength, skill, agility, poise and grace required to do it certainly makes for a brilliant spectacle.
But, I don't need to watch anymore, for I am fortunate to be old enough to have seen in real time, perfection - Nadia Comăneci.
Find myself asking -- why do they carry on, when nothing more can be achieved?
They don't hand out perfect tens for nothing.

badminton will have to be banned

Never mind Dressage, looks like Badminton will have to banned from the Olympics, due to general political incorrectness and the unethical treatment of animals:

"Top level shuttlecocks are made from sixteen feathers embedded in a rounded cork base covered with leather. Goose feathers are the best. Duck feathers are sometimes used but they have a tendency to dry out and break. The feathers - nearly all from China, where the there is a strong taste for goose - must come from the left wing of the bird, and each wing provides only seven or eight feathers of the requisite size. They are easily bent and broken, so players may get through a dozen or more during the course of a match. Shuttlecocks also have to be used quickly; they cannot be vacuum-packed and begin to degrade after a couple of months on the shelf."

from David Goldblatt & Johnny Acton, How to Watch the Olympics, [Profile Books, London, 2011], 400pp.

Haven't done the math, but how many birds are sacrificed in the service of The Games and then burnt-at-the-stake?
BBQ'd to all their meaty, greasy goodness.
Pop 'em in a snack pack and watch the shuttlecocks fly!
Horrifying vegetarians since 1992.

the Green Pool and the Gold Vagina

Jacques Cousteau's,

By far the biggest scandal of the Rio Games, so far, must be The Green Diving Pool, for mine.
Reminded me somewhat of Kerosene Creek on the North Island of New Zealand.
Now, if you want really green water, go there.
Chock full of strange life forms.
It's remote and hard to find, but when you plunge in, it is warm, as the stream is bristling with pools of hot thermal springs at about 34 degrees, and yes, it does stink of kerosene.
But the chemical waters are renowned nation-wide for their healing and health giving properties, especially for the physically challenged aka afflicted.
However, there are warning signs that you are never, under any circumstances, to put your head under water.
Kero Creek is seething with weird amoeba, that get in through your mouth, yr nostrils, yr shell-likes, even yr eyes; which then start attacking the brain, and you end up with something akin to Mad Cow's Disease.
Appropriate, really.
Given the Olympic Games are a vast excercise in complete craziness.
And who knew that it takes 11 million litres of the finest water Rio has to offer, to drain and refill a competition diving pool?

Reminded again that the Australian accent and vernacular can get you into innocent, and no so innocent trouble, while overseas.
You are guarateed to have at least one faux pas a day in lands where English is not the mother tounge.
Got no idea who the second-string track and field commentator behind the great Bruce McAvaney on the Ch.7 coverage is, but who ever he is, he has an excellent Strayan accent.
My hearing is not what it used to be, but I swear the other night that when he was referring in Strine to some event, and said so-and-so "looked likely to win the gold for China", it for all the world came out sounding like "The Gold Vagina".
Odd thing language.
Little wonder that non-native speakers with 600 words of English, have simply no idea what Australians are talking about, let alone what they are on about.

the bloke who was running away from it

Lounge Lizards,

The Marathon?
Run only because it happened, once, back in the day - September 12, 490 BC.
Marathon?
Some run-down good-for-nothing of a town that just happened to be of critical strategic military importance on the day, when a couple of mobs in disagreement had a helluva toe-to-toe ding-dong brawl over it, by all accounts.
And at the start, it was the bloke who was running away from it, and was praying all the time to what ever God was his, that he'd never have to do it again, ever.
Yet, people still do.
Very hard to find anything more old-fashioned at The Games.
But why 26 miles 385 yards?
When, although no-one has ever quite bothered to get the tape measure out, the road distance between modern day Marathon and Athens is about 25 miles, more or less, in the old money.
In a state of exhaustion from too much sport is barely enough, found myself late at night slumped on the lounge being sucked into the vortex that is Women's Marathon.
In Australian Rules you often hear the commentators say "and it's a perfect day for football" - you never hear anyone saying "and it's a perfect day for a Marathon".
Hot, humid, no breeze to speak of and not a cloud in the sky is never perfect for anything, let alone a brisk stroll in the park.
That said, the lady from Kenya, Jemima Jelegat Sumgong, ran a perfect tactical race under the conditions, and knew it; saying gold was hers in her own head once she passed the 40km signpost from where she came from.
"I knew I was on the way to history.”
She knew all day the others would fade away, one-by-one, struggling in agony every inch of the way, with wildly different contortions of extreme pain and dreadful suffering written all over their faces.
In a race where there is no mercy, they all looked like they were in desperate need of urgent drug treatment; please, just a pinch of some of that Colombian Marching Powder, just to keep me going to the finish of it all, please, just please.
After plodding along brilliantly for all of two hours twenty four minutes and four seconds, Ms Sumgong won by a mere nine seconds - but she knew that was enough, she knew she would win - it was never in doubt.
She knew it might as well be daylight between her and silver, the margin back to second never counts, despite the appearance of it being a close run thing.
From the get go - a classic war of attrition - at its finest.
Good to watch