Olympics.

Oh-limp-pics.

Oli Mpegs.

I digress. Apparently I have a face that digresses. Again.

So the Olympics are on.

That venerable pasttime where nations pit their brightest and best against each other in the spirit of competition and sportsmanship.

We’ve had some real challenges. Doping scandals. Scandals about dope. Herculean spectacles of advertising and money making. Terrorist attacks and political action.

A true mirror to our long-suffering interdependency.

It’s 2014. And the Olympics are in Sochi, Russia.

Tensions are high. All eyes are glaring. Conditions are less than ideal. The climate is like chilled vodka in a frosty glass.

I see what I did there.

And still, the athletes perform like gods. Amazing feats of dexterity and coordination. Wonderful displays of patriotism and teamwork.

And heartwarming visuals of solidarity across boundaries large and small.

Back home, the political benchwarmers squabble over what flags to fly. Like their opinions matter.

Because, they say, the Olympics are about the very elite of a country’s physical magicians, those finely honed and trained persons of exquisite strength and character.

It’s their chance to shine.

And the powers that wanna-be will tell you it has nothing to do with a persons preferred lifestyle choice.

And you know what?

They are absolutely right.

It’s 2014. The Olympics are in Sochi, Russia.

And what people do behind closed doors with each other, in the name of love, lust or passing fancy, has no bearing on their ability to win gold, silver or bronze.

Or, as it happens, to do just about anything else you or I might have a hankering to do in our everyday lives.

So fly the fucking colours, mate. All the colours of the rainbow.

If you don’t like it, you shouldn’t have put The Rings on it.