I am, however, an Olymposceptic. I always opposed holding them in London, and never wavered even during the 17 days four summers ago when even my staunchest allies faltered. I felt like the man in trunks on a nudist beach; the unbeliever at a mass Moonie wedding. Late one night I bared my soul to a kindly colleague who had spent seven years covering every detail of the build-up.