Thankfully for the organisers, the 20th Winter Games have finally begun, a spectacular display of pyrotechnics marking the lighting of the Olympic flame on Friday evening.
It is always this way with major Games: a week of moaning by the media quickly dissipated by the relentless rhythms of athletic achievement. People suddenly become more interested in gold medals than the shortage of pillows in the journalists’ quarters.
Once a puck has been pucked, a luger has luged or a curler curled, the main physical concern for the writer is neck ache. Rule One of covering Olympics is that something more important than what you are seeing in front of you always seems to be happening behind you.
Hence Rule Two of Olympic journalism: never try to be in two places at once. I remember ignoring the rule in Atlanta and was only saved from an ignominious end by the quick-wittedness of a local volunteer.
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“Whoa there, my friend,” he said, grabbing me by the arm as I was about to leap into the path of a bus. “The Games’ll wait, even for you.” And he was right. But I was lucky. Atlanta folk are not known for their quick-wittedness.
At least the Winter Games are a little less frenetic, although trying to place a “McFlip” into the terminology of sport can cause a real sense of isolation. What is a mogul? And what, or who, is bob skeleton?
Rule Three of covering major events featuring mainly minor sports: always bluff, never admit that you don’t know what you’re talking about. “I thought Sam, Gerd, Karen, Bjorn or whoever really showed his/her class with that McFlip on the back side,” you say confidently. “Has anyone seen the qualifying results for the women’s luge?” can be an equally unnerving opener.
In Turin, the press centre is housed in the former Fiat factory. On the roof is the original test track used for the Mini sequence in The Italian Job. I have requested clearance from the relevant authority to view the site and will report if I have success.
Security here is either utterly heavy-handed or utterly underwhelming. It took me two days to work out that the posse of young lads in woolly hats manning the stairways at the bottom of our media tower were the security guards. I had thought they were about to make off with my laptop.
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In one little cameo the other evening, a Canadian journalist walked sedately through a barrier and started climbing the escalator on the way to what he believed was his media bus. Unfortunately, Signor Ciampi, the Italian president, had just made a formal visit to the centre and the carabinieri were understandably nervous. As the little Canadian made his way inexorably up the escalator they formed a cordon at the top to greet him, fingering their gun belts.
Only a quick phone call from a security guard at the bottom to the officer at the top prevented a major diplomatic incident. The thick blue line parted, reluctantly, it must be said, and our friend walked safely on, seemingly oblivious to the film noir scene in which he’d just starred.
That brings me to Rule Four: never come between a journalist and his media bus. Unless you happen to be that kind and quick-witted man in Atlanta, of course.