None of us was ready for Sharon Davies’s breasts. I’ve wasted countless lonely hours as night turns into day on fruitless searches for TV breasts, but the usual hangover of self-loathing and a stiff neck was replaced by a lapful of Coco Pops when the Beeb persuaded Sharon’s chest to, quite literally in this case, front the early morning coverage from the Olympic pool.
There was something hypnotic about the way they interviewed a stream of dripping British swimmers, as Sharon looked on. Friends would exchange knowing looks in the pub or office, eerie thousand-yard breast stares. “Did you see? . . .” But it was best not to talk about them.
Breasts at breakfast, and on the BBC. I felt lost. I wanted that funny little man who looks like something out of Wind in the Willows to come on and tell me about the Hang Seng index, or a buttoned-up weather forecaster to bring news of cold fronts. I wanted to hear the words “sheer volume of traffic on the Hanger Lane Gyratory”, whatever that actually means. I flicked over, but not even GMTV’s latest ghoulish troupe of wax presenters hawking a campaign for Tony Martin’s inclusion in the British shooting team by encouraging us to text the word “pikeys” to the number on the screen could make everything OK.
What if this catches on? What if the Beeb’s cast of thousands have gone crazy on cheap ouzo and indulged in a Dyonisian orgy that’s part self-destructive Ballardian dystopia, part 18-30 Faliraki binge? It’s the closing ceremony tomorrow and I fear the worst. Thousand of doves and Steve Ryder lying back in his tiny Speedos, the boys nonchalantly popping out of the barracks. Or maybe it was just hot by that pool?
Olympics, Saturday, BBC One, from 7.30am; BBC Two, from 9pm