A fie on whoever it was who invented the slow-motion camera. I've reached my limit of distorted sallow fleshbags wobbling at me. Even the world's finest, most honed and toned, athletes wibble like a troubled duck as they run along. Yesterday I watched Abi Oyepitan of Great Britain. A fine athlete, at the peak of her physical condition. But her whole face damn near folds in half with the impact of running when seen at half-speed. It's difficult to understand how she can see where she's going.
And that's before you even get to the willies. Willies aplenty. I reckon I could go on You Bet and successfully identify athlete's penises in the flesh just from what I've seen from the silhouettes in lovingly detailed close-ups before the start of the races. Reedy ones. Bulby ones. Great big ones. Huge great massive ones. Ones with a bell end like an elephant's heart. Ones so huge you get a urethral camel toe. I should probably stop looking at them. I should definitely stop making a sketchbook of what I think they look like.
At least we didn't get any such pictures of the new Belarussian women's shot putt champion.
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