Oh, Christine, you've set my Olympic torch aflame

Inspiration: Christine Ohuruogu is a flawed but brilliant heroine of the Games
13 April 2012

For some of us the Olympics are always painful. There are fans - and fairweather fans. And then you have those who require a meteorological explosion of Biblical proportions before they develop any kind of interest at all.

This week, the heavens have burst open, showering Team GB with glory. Which is challenging for the likes of me.

What do you do if you know nothing about sport, could not really care less and suddenly your country wins 16 gold medals? You can't exactly pretend it's a silly season story.

I hate being a woman who is not interested in sport. It is stereotypical, unfeminist and degrading. It means I am somehow lacking.

I am a spoilsport, a sporting autistic. I will never shout "Go-won" at the television, while shaking my fist dramatically.

I will never make a penetrating observation about the error of using a 4-4-2 formation. (If that is even remotely correct.)

Throughout my life I have tried and failed to absorb the smallest of facts about Arsenal, in order to bond with my father. But I struggle to remember the names of any of the players, let alone their strengths, weaknesses, what position they play in. How does anyone memorise all this stuff?

With these Olympics, however, I'm turning a corner. The gold medals help. As does the number of women winning them (eight and counting). At last we have so many different women winners that they all come across as vastly different types.

In swimmer Rebecca Adlington, with her dreams of Jimmy Choo shoes, we have sweet and girly. Cyclist Rebecca Romero is steely and hyper-ambitious. And now we have a brilliant but flawed heroine in Christine Ohuruogu.

The resurgence of women's sport is addictive to watch. But what has really broken down my resistance to sport in general is the wealth of psychological detail. I love the way rower Katherine Grainger burst into tears when she "only" won silver. (Because this is what I would do. In a fantasy parallel existence, obviously.)

I cannot know enough about the chicken nuggets Usain Bolt ate before running 200m in 19.3 seconds. And I have savoured Michael Phelps's megalomaniac gestures at the end of his little swims. He looks like a giant pterodactyl version of Lee from The Apprentice screaming: "That's wot I'm talkin' about."

But is it a betrayal to watch Olympians as if they were characters from a reality TV programme? I don't think so. Because when sport engages us like the best theatre, it has transformative powers.

It is changing me already. Originally I was planning to take up a vow of silence for the whole of 2012. Now I'm considering engaging fully with the national conversation. I just need a few women athletes and regular updates on the chicken nugget situation.

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