Olympic torch relay? I’d rather clean my toilet.

Here’s to the enterprising Truro roast pork seller who attempted to rename her market stall “Olympigs”, and fell foul of branding rules. This praise comes from a vegetarian!

Otherwise, the Olympic torch relay through England’s southwest, or, for that matter, anywhere else in these benighted and economically stagnant isles, is of no interest to me.

Still, the imminent festival of running, jumping and splashing about does at least provide an opportunity for the more creative misanthropes among us to shine. In the pages of the Guardian, for example. Yesterday it was Exeter University literature professor Philip Hensher, who wrote

“I’ve taken every step to avoid all such programmes of authority-sponsored gaiety since August 1969, when my grandmother took me to an official fete in Kingston upon Thames, and I saw a harassed matron telling her child: ‘I’ve brought you out. I’ve paid for your entrance. I’ve bought you a toy trumpet. Now you can just start enjoying yourself.’”

I wish that my fellow Olympic dissenter had written more.