It was 2012 and, now I look it up, actually my birthday, and I was having a standup row with an American journalist because the Australian Anna Meares had just won gold in the women’s cycling sprint event. Let me count the ways in which the Olympics had driven me mad. First, gripped by a patriotic fervour that even Kemi Badenoch would probably have found a bit much, I was enraged that Victoria Pendleton had come second. Enraged. I hated Australia, I didn’t understand why American journalists were even allowed to watch the proud sportsters if they weren’t going to root for the British ones.
Second, I was incandescent about the injustice of an adjudication, on a rule that I’d only learned five minutes before. Pendleton had crossed a lane line, which is forbidden, yet it looked like Meares had pushed her, then the judges said Meares hadn’t, then the race was redone, then Meares won, and five-minutes-ago me didn’t even know you were allowed a rematch, but now I was the Ruth Bader Ginsburg of cycling tort and I wanted to put Meares in prison.
