Paris 2024 - Olympic Games.

 Paris 2024- Olympic Games.

The Olympic Games has always been about solidarity and heroism, defiance of the odds, bravery and bravura, jolly good friends and company, team bonding and camaraderie, hugging each other even though you've just won silver and bronze and somebody had to win the gold. It is a time for mutual appreciation and admiration, going that extra yard. Of course it is the taking part that should count, graciousness in defeat and just an acceptance of the status quo. Those Olympic rings have become its distinctive symbol and nobody could deny that.

Yesterday in Paris, they were slapping each other on the back in congratulation because friendly bonhomie and beaming smiles had restored our faith in humanity. There was no spite, nastiness, malice, resentment nor any hint of jealousy. None of us could see any sign of evil nationalism because this is the Olympic Games and nobody should hold a festering grudge to anybody. There were no doping cheats or excessive drug takers who might just have broken into the Olympic movement and stolen its dignity.

There were no East German or Russian shot putters with arms and shoulders the size of a small country estate who had quite clearly been bulking up their already strapping physique with poppers and stimulants. There was a time when the Olympics carried around with it a disturbing notoriety, a contemptuous disregard for the legal morals and ethics of sport. We knew that the Games could be clean, pure and puritanical because it had done it before and you shouldn't really resort to the lowest common denominator since that was the ultimate law breaker.

Back in the swimming pool, Team GB were spreading the goodwill and, for the first time on the athletics track, the girls were wrapping their arms around each other's shoulders, extending the best of wishes even though one of them had to come last. The Olympic swimming pool was just beside itself with good vibes, swimmers just openly delighted with each other's notable achievements because, in essence, they had risen to the challenge and Baron Pierre De Coubertin had a fair point.

But when French heart throb Leon Marchand got into the pool yet again, the crowd were just screaming for Marchand, willing him on fervently, waving the Tricolours flags with overflowing passion. Marchand had responded to his wildly patriotic audience because France were the perfect hosts and this was their man. Marchand has been performing out of his skin, focused, consumed with the intensity of the occasion and knowing that there could only be one winner and he had to win a gold medal.

So the gentlemen of the world lined up in their respective lanes, crouched forward, swung loose arms, adjusted goggles and then just embraced the moment passionately. It was there in the whites of their eyes, devotion to the cause, unflagging commitment and just determined to win for their country. There is something in the look, the piercing stare into the distance, the awareness of what it all means to your country. Swimmers have those qualities in abundance.

It was a night though seemingly dominated by the French with just a respectful nod to their cross Channel neighbours Great Britain. There has never been anything but jovial rivalry between France and Great Britain or, to be more precise, England. Occasionally, it all gets a bit personal at times, mutual animosity and loathing lurking ominously under the surface. But then, they shake hands, thinking of nothing but entente cordiale, harmony, neighbourly communality and just getting on with the business of good, old fashioned sport.

We have yet to hear about illegal supplements, amphetamines, illegitimate mood boosters and clandestine pills sneaked into the Olympic village where nobody can find them anyway. So far, all the athletes, swimmers and all of the star names have been paragons of virtue, good boys and girls. They know all about the dreadful repercussions that will follow if they so much as swallow a Paracetamol before a big race. Of course they face lengthy and, quite possibly, permanent bans from any future Olympic Games. But this is serious, competitive sport and not some local competition where there are no medals. 

And now it was that the eight men who were about to take part in the 200 metres individual medley stood excitedly and historically on their marks before taking that crucial plunge. They must have briefly engaged with friends and family in the swimming hall because the fleeting waves to mum, dad, brother and sister had been seen by all of us. The honour of the nation was at stake and the pressure could be almost felt and touched, nerves shivering down their spines. Then they closed their eyes again, shrugging shoulders, bracing themselves, bodies itching to just launch themselves whole heartedly into the pool. It was time for action, going for gold or any medal that would ensure instant celebrity status.

Suddenly the hooter went off, the gun blasting at just the right dramatic moment. Eight men simultaneously flung themselves into their personal quests to write themselves into the history books, genuine immortality. The French knew they could do it and so did Team GB. Private fears and thoughts were blocked out immediately and it was time for the big show, everybody. Just concentrate on the singular task in hand. You can do it and we know you can. So the Anglo French alliance was left on the back burner just for a  couple of minutes. The celebrations and consoling pats on muscular shoulders could wait. None of us were going anywhere. This was it. All good friends.

Half way through the race you could almost feel the immensity of it all, the classical grandeur of the Olympic Games once again making its presence known again. Team GB had also once known moments of glory when Duncan Goodhew had captured British hearts many decades ago. Then, after the first 100metres had been completed and bodies were rolled around in the water, it was a straight head to head between the Frenchman Marchand and Duncan Scott. Arms almost locked together in combat, both Marchand and Scott were neck and neck, legs frantically kicking, cruising towards the finishing line with nothing between them. 

Meanwhile, back in fifth position was one Tom Dean, who seemed to be thrilled to be part of last night's swimming extravaganza. Dean knew, that although he'd already won an Olympic medal, this was not to be a repeat performance. Now though the spotlight fell on both Marchand and Scott. Racing towards the wall of the pool, both men went for it. In our hearts, most of us had recognised excellence when we'd seen it. Marchand just reached out for another French gold medal and a nation cracked open a bottle of Beaujolais. Scott blinked back drops of water, grinned happily and then planted his hands on his victorious counterpart. So that's what the Olympics is about. All fair in love and war.

Elsewhere, in the gymnastics hall, the wonderful Simone Biles had taken everybody to their hearts. Over 40 years ago, both Nadia Comaneci of Romania and only four years before, the Russian Olga Korbut had endeared themselves to the Olympic Games sisterhood. They had swung on the bars almost miraculously, performed almost balletically on the floor and then undergone yet more sophisticated tumbles, twists and turns on the pommel horse. This was gymnastics at its finest, most spellbinding, aesthetically appealing. Both Comaneci and Korbut had become kindred spirits, where extraordinary agility and flexibility simply looked impossible to match.

But then Simone Biles of the United States of America went through what looked like the most demanding routine, gymnastics had ever seen. The floor was hers. Her technique on the pommel was almost sublime, legs achieving an immaculate co-ordination, swinging and flinging, powdered hands clutching onto the apparatus in much the way that she'd done a million times in her dreams. For a moment, she'd perfectly encapsulated the true spirt of the Olympics, all glittering sequins, toothpaste smile and the most engaging of all personalities.

Once again, back in the swimming pool, there was further Team GB representation and didn't we know it? Ben Proud was just happy to be at an Olympics let alone win anything. But, at the back of Proud's mind there must have been a burning ambition, an inner drive, a sense that he could actually do something both his family and friends would never forget. So, France once again, in the 50m freestyle, were at the centre of the Olympic universe, critical but forgiving at times but absolutely nuts about their exemplary Olympian Florent Manadou. This was a no brainer. Manadou had to win because this was their year, their month and their week. Time stood still and even the Champs Elysses must have caught its breath.

So Manadou and his fellow Olympian protagonist Ben Proud clasped hold of the mantle and just went for it. Before you knew it, Manadou threw himself into the pool and just went for it full pelt. With a breathtaking pace, the Frenchmen just ploughed through the water, assurance in every stroke, smooth, disciplined and, ultimately unbeatable.  Manadou was both stately, serene and, at once sensitive to everything around him. The gold medal was in his possession and nothing else mattered for France. 

And so the Olympic Games had reached its half way point. Next on the nutritious and wholesome menu is life on the athletics and field track. Now this is where the Olympics really does come into its own. This is where records are broken, hearts shattered and medals are worn with just as much as distinction as the swimming events. It was Mary Peters who captivated the whole of Great Britain with the mightiest of shot putts in Munich 1972, Daley Thompson emerged as superhuman in the LA Olympics of 1984 and the memorable feats of Seb Coe and Steve Ovett won gold medals but not necessarily in the right order to quote the great Morecambe and Wise.

Whatever you may think of the Olympics as a morally bankrupt force and a sporting spectacle that almost reeks of cheating and corruption, we are now at the end of the first week. Nobody has been accused of taking any hormone supplement or just something that was questionable. We had one horrible moment shortly before the first day in Paris when a potentially damaging blow almost stopped the show before it had got going.

An arson attack which disrupted the railway system and, still petty differences of opinion, had now drifted into obscurity. Be prepared for more marvellous medal winning performances and breathlessly palpitating Olympian races to the wire. We've seen it before but we're more than happy to see it again. It is indeed the greatest show on earth and we can never cease to be amazed.