My Olympic Flame

2012 was the year of the London Olympic games.  As a result, London was heaving with a large proportion of muscular, god-like beings.  Regular plebs the world over descended on our country in order to witness these champions lift heavy things, throw heavy things, and leap over high things.

Due to this vast increase in tourism, I saw an opportunity opening up.  I rounded up a whole bunch of old t shirts, scrawled an Olympic logo on the front, and headed down to London.  This was the best money-making scheme I’d had since I decided to make my own money.  Sure, the Olympic organisers sent me a cease and desist notice, but I figured that because imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, that would be an airtight defence in the event that it turned into a court case.

I arrived in the Olympic village the day after the opening ceremony.  I ran hither, thither and yon, holding up t shirts in people’s faces and screaming “YOU BUY!  YOU BUY!”  I managed to complete a few transactions, enough to justify the trip anyway.  I’d even bought some luminous key finders and sold them as official Olympic torches.  Business was modest.  Not booming, but decent enough.

That’s when I saw her emerge from the crowds, standing out like a goddess amongst mortals.  She was a finely tuned ebony statuette wearing a Team GB strip.  Her abs were so defined they could define the word abs in the Oxford English Dictionary.  I could sand down a banister with that stomach.

Now, who wants toasted marshmallows?

I can honestly say that I’ve never seen a woman like that before.  In fact, most of the girls I know have .jpg in their name.  Regardless, this sighting opened my eyes, my mind, and my testes.  I knew, in that instant, that she would have to be mine.  In comparison I was but an ant.  A pasty, spaghetti-armed nancy boy who struggled to lift his own head in the morning.  She looked like she could lift a Mini and play it like an accordion.  Still, I knew that I could make this matchup work.

I pushed my way through the sweaty crowds, stepping on an old lady who was trying to purchase my official Olympic rings (Frisbees), and tried to catch up with the divine beauty in front of me.  I shoulder-barged a couple of Asian tourists out of my path, only to run straight into a huge chunk of a man who probably could have been a weight lifter.  Or a professional lardarse.  Either way, I was helplessly caught in his hefty frame.  All I could do was look longingly at her back as she headed towards the Olympic village exit.  I made a mental note of the registration number on her back; 1042.

From that day forth, 1042 would be my lucky number.  I prioritised that set of digits in my memory and my brain cached the information over my PIN number.  I wouldn’t need it anyway; who needs money when you have love?

I floated to the Information centre and asked them for more information on the enchanting Miss 1042.  I learned that her name was Vicky Holmes, and she was a javelin thrower.  That made sense.  She’d thrown a cupid’s javelin straight into my chest cavity.  Looking at the timetables, I learned that the javelin throwing would take place at 15:00.  It was 14:43 already.  I had to be quick.

Just in case you didn't know what javelins look like

I sprinted through the village towards the stadium, dodging through the crowds.  I leaped over a child, ducked under the legs of an entertainer on stilts, and slalomed through a school party who were in formation near a gift cart.  I’d never ran this fast in my entire life.  Usain Bolt can eat his cock off.

I reached the stadium with a couple of minutes to spare.  The security guards patted me down rather thoroughly.  They could probably feel my pulse racing and the sweat dripping off of me.  Exercise wasn’t exactly my speciality.  They asked me a couple of questions because I seemed so agitated, and they pulled me to one side in the name of security.  I must have seemed a little like a terrorist because they whipped out their handheld metal detectors and began to run them over my body.

I waited impatiently for them to finish.  Could they not see that I wasn’t a terrorist?  The nearest I’d been to an explosive device was a scented bath bomb.  As they made me raise my arms to check that I hadn’t concealed large quantities of C4 in my armpits, I started to get antsy.  My eyes darted around; when I noticed a tunnel just off to the right with a sign above saying “athletes only”.  Surely my warrior princess had gone that way.  In my excitement, I shoved one of the guards out of the way and made a break for it.

They gave chase, shouting something about lethal force if necessary, but their speed couldn’t hope to match a man in love.  I sprinted down the tunnel as fast as possible.  I could hear the overwhelming roar of the crowd outside.  It was getting louder.  I flew past several changing room doors.  I didn’t know if she was in them or already on the field.  I decided to wait near the entrance to the field and see if I could spot her.

As I approached the final stretch I could see the tunnel open up in front of me, revealing a vast array of cheering faces.  Many were flying flags, throwing streamers, and waving in that curious fashion that is commonly associated with Mexicans.  I was standing at the entrance to the field.  The atmosphere was buzzing with the anticipation of the games ahead.  That’s when I noticed her.  Miss 1042, I mean Vicky, was heading out, about to take her place in history.  It was her turn to throw.

My pounding heart could contain itself no longer.  Through a mixture of desperation and fear that the guards would catch me if I waited any longer, I strode out onto the field.

This was the bravest thing I’d ever done.  In fact, I’m sure this was bravest thing anyone had ever done in the history of everything ever.  If I asked her on a date in front of 100,000 people, surely she couldn’t say no.  I mean, it’s such a romantic gesture.  Legions of sweaty sports fans whooping, hollering and playing the theme from The Great Escape would make an ideal backdrop to our blossoming love story.  What woman could ask for more?

A romantic hotspot

In a moment I was behind her.  She towered over me like a plinth.  I know that’s not a particularly romantic comparison, but you understand the size difference in play here.  I was nought but a skinny breadstick when next to her.  She was still going through a few warm up stretches, preparing that phenomenal physique for the athletic task ahead.  This gave me a few more seconds to invite her to join me in this whirlwind of passion.

“Excuse me, would you like to-ERK!”

I was stopped short as she reached behind and grabbed me by the neck.  She lifted me above her head without even noticing me, holding me aloft like a trophy.  She took two steps, and suddenly, the pressure around my neck had gone, although I was hurtling through the sky at an alarming pace.  Considering my flailing limbs, I was surprisingly aerodynamic.  The sensation of flying was wonderful.  I didn’t care that the object of my affections had tossed me like a disposable piece of sporting equipment.  That was, until gravity took a hold of me, and the inevitable, bone-shattering crash happened.

And that, kids, is how your mother and I broke an Olympic record.

----- Submitted for this week's Dude Write.