06:00 Get up. You have to. There’s no option. If you fail to get up now, you’ll miss your train and ultimately have to wait in a horrendously long queue outside the park. Stay ahead of the games James! Remember what Boris has been ramming down your throat at London Bridge every five minutes as you wait for your train home from work.

06:30 I’m up, I’m up.

07:30 I’ve arrived at the station. Parking arrangements resemble that of a highly orchestrated war effort that somehow still doesn’t work out very well. Parking attendants are directing cars around like jumbo jets, using arm movements that are so elaborate  you can only presume they are mime artists moonlighting for extra cash in our current unstable economy.

07:41 The sudden realisation that I’ve been directed to Car Park E when Car Parks A-D are empty confuses me somewhat; bearing in mind Car Park E is a good twenty minute walk away from the station, and is the furthest away. We are informed Car Parks A-D are being saved for Eurostar customers. I obviously missed the memo that there was a mass migration to France day that day.

07:50 There is a shuttle service available from Car Park E to said train terminal for people with disabilities or health problems. Requests for my Mother to fain a pregnancy/serious illness fall on deaf ears, so we join the rest of the mobile Olympic ticket-holders in the hike to the train station that, due to crowd control measures, resembles cattle being sent to an abattoir.

08:15 I’ve arrived at the Olympic Park. Greeted by abhorrent Olympic mascot called Wenlock. Can’t help but feeling that said mascot looks like melted sex toy with large eye. When he greets me, I nervously laugh and awkwardly smile, before walking swiftly on. Somehow I know that won’t be the last time I’ll see the freak today.

09:00 I pass the necessary security checks to enter the park; joke made about Wenlock being a security risk doesn’t go down well. The response I received from the attendant would make anyone think I’d told her I rob from old people and spit on kittens in my spare time.

09:10 Waiting in a queue for a sandwich. Olympic volunteers working at till are serving customers at a pace so mind-numbingly slow I feel as if I’ve actually gone back in time since entering the park. Is it 2005? The music being blared out the sound system would seem to suggest so.

09:15 ‘Bubbly’ Olympic helper asks me if I’m having a ‘rocking time at London 2K12’.  I greet her with a stony stare and rejoin my seat in the stadium. Sandwich-less.

10:05 Olympic games begin! The euphoria! The excitement! I feel as if I’m a part of history! A truly wonderful moment!

10:06 Bloody Wenlock has reared his ugly head into proceedings already. He’s dancing around like a rat on acid. Who knew he was such a fan of Lady GaGa’s ‘Born This Way’?

10:35I’ve begun to realise that there is more than one event going on at any one given time. The poor men’s hammer throwers could steal a microphone and present an emotional cover of Celine Dion’s ‘All By Myself’ and no-one would give any more of a shit. Watching successive female Olympians tackle the Hurdles is strangely transfixing, and as Ennis takes to the track to execute her finest 100m Hurdle race, I cheer her on; and sadly she comes last. I wonder why everyone else in my stand is expressing such emotions of joy and excitement. The sudden realisation that I’ve been following not Jess Ennis, but the Russian Federations’ finest; Miss Tatyana Chernova does not phase me. I shout and whoop with contentment.

11:20 The Men’s 400m are getting slightly same-old, same-old, so I hazard another trip to the Sandwich bar. This time, the queue is smaller, but I become locked in a bitter land battle with a middle aged Mother with two young children. I know If I don’t get in front, I’ll have to wait an age whilst the little devil children choose between the Humous and Carrot Sticks or the Oat and Bran Bar. My attempts to edge in front are however thwarted by an angry looking man who has no Olympic creditation on him, but still claims to work for them. The Olympic Park secret police had sussed my plan; I return to my original place in the queue.

11:25 The temptation to purchase a Wenlock stuffed toy is too much to bear. I’m made to feel that I’m in someway a traitor if I don’t love him and admire what he represents. I manage to resist the urge to purchase, although the attendant I so nearly purchased from looks as if I’ve ripped out her heart and stabbed it a few times over. She looks genuinely heartbroken. I purchase a programme instead and enjoy the pictures of Boris Johnson and David Cameron looking like they’re modelling for a Next Catalogue.

12:30 I’ve been watching the High Jump for quite some time with admiration, and have developed an admiration for Katarina Johnson-Thompson. I text a fellow friend in the audience; we both agree she’d make an ideal addition to our lunch date club. We toss and turn over whether to send her tweets such as “OMG KJT WE LUV U – DO U WANT 2 GO 4 LUNCH WIV US ONE DAY? #BIGGESTFAN”.

12:49 There is a competitor called Regina George. Amazing.



13:00 The steeplechase has begun. Apart from the momentary jumps over the mini-paddling pool, it really is the dullest race imaginable. Are they the Olympic leftovers? A lady nearby has whipped out her ‘Fifty Shades’, a spanish tourist is holding a conference call a few rows back, and the Olympic music advisors are pumping ‘We Will Rock You’ through the sound system so to prevent the audience from slipping into a coma. At this point, rock is our oxygen – WE NEED IT TO SURVIVE.

13:30 I leave the Olympic park conscious of the fact I’ve been extremely lucky to get tickets. If you managed to successfully book tickets through the Olympic ticket website, you’ve already peaked in life. Nothing will match the feeling of elation you feel as you successfully receive the confirmation email for your tickets. You feel as if you’ve beaten the system. WHO CARES I’VE SPENT £350 FOR TWO TICKETS TO SEE A HORSE JUMP OVER A POLE?! WHO GIVES A DAMN I’VE SPENT £900 FOR TWO TICKETS TO CANOE SLALOM?! Anything is better than the sinking feeling you get when you’ve sat in the queue for 36 minutes, just to be informed that actually there are no tickets left for the dancing horses. Sitting in the Olympic Park, I could have been told all the events for the day were cancelled, I’d be getting no refund, and that I’d be required to help muck out the horse dung after the nervous tap dancing routines at the equestrian dressage; I’D STILL FEEL SOME SENSE OF SMUGNESS AND ELITISM. No-one will ever be able to take this feeling away from me.

16:30 I’ve arrived home. Olympic fever has gripped my household. I have to migrate to the loft every time I wish to watch Eastenders as my family cannot leave the gripping coverage of the Judo for half an hour. We have become experts in our fields. I find myself shouting at the television when there is a slight error at the Canoe Slalom. “He should have caught the waves a lot clearer” I exclaim as I dip into my second bag of Walkers Sensations whilst simultaneously refusing an offer for day trip to Calais due to my fear of boats and sailing.

My life is now revolved around simultaneously planning my rise to notoriety as one of Team GB’s finest Kite-surfers at Rio 2016, and wishing I was Tom Daley.

I have the Olympic fever.