I wrote a while ago about Art versus Sport as if it was some big conceptual clash of the Titans, quickly realizing that it wasn't sport I was locking horns with (anyway, who am I to represent Art?)- it was the sweat, the glamour, the showmanship, the overriding influence of testosterone-fuelled frenzy- strange chemicals in both our metaphorical waters, that perhaps needed grilling a bit. *Coughhofeshcough*.

I realise the Olympics wouldn't be much without ambition. "Nah- let's just let them run in the streets." It wouldn't look as futuristic. There wouldn't be any meticulously designed Whole New Chunk Of Our City- first shiny plastic mini-model with tiny little plastic people looking really happy and enriched and then 'Oh my god there it is in front of our eyes, we ARE the tiny little plastic people!'

But is it us? I thought London was all coffee and cigarette butts and grumpy commuters. Graffiti and chips and grumpy commuters. And happy commuters who can't stop themselves bopping to their ipod on the tube. And buses that make you vom. Anyway. Now everyone has to be happy.

I sound like a nostalgic old grump, I realise. What I really wanted to write about today- what I was really thinking and yes, resenting, was that now anytime anyone ever says 'London'- and anytime anyone ever says '2012'- all we see is this:

The worst. logo. ever.

My 2012 was going to be about making the most of abosolutely everything that has nothing to do with the Olympics, but even we- the unsporting, we- the pubic haired speedo shunners, have a lot to benefit from this shebang. I'm seeing microgrants, I'm seeing touring opportunities, I'm seeing gung-ho, Boris-y enthusiasm for any remote speck of initiative under the sun.

And doubtless I'll be feeding off it- quite literally- with the best of them.