I have arrived. I am now a member of the British Columbia Chapter of the Couch Potatoes of Canada.

This honour comes with the purchase of a 42-inch plasma TV, an early birthday present since TW isn't accepting it as an anniversary gift; nor is she willing to move the fridge into the living room, forcing me to rely on my young son to deliver beer from the kitchen.

This gift came just in time for the Olympics, and let me tell you, you haven't seen beach volleyball until you've seen it in high definition. My HD box also contains a PVR, allowing me to record the Olympics if I am forced to leave the house for emergencies such as more beer or food or medical attention - I have been known to choke on nachos.

By the end of the 17 days of competition, I should be considerably fatter and paler, especially in light of the fact that I have recently sustained an injury to my leg, falling down during a trip to the river with the dog, another reminder of my accelerating decrepitude. At this rate I may not make it to the next Olympics.

The Games coverage starts in the morning due to the time difference between here and London, some seven or eight hours, which can cut into my sleep time. I may have to set an alarm next week to catch some of the events.

Friday is the first day for athetics or track and field, the real blood and guts of the Games from my perspective, although I have enjoyed watching the swimming this past week and of course the aforementioned beach volleyball, which, one wonders was a questionable choice for inclusion, given the fact that the indoor game is much more exciting but with a lot less T and A.

Same goes for tennis, basketball, boxing, generally more commonplace activities that one can see during the year or judo, something I fail to understand and appears to be no more than two athletes in loose-fitting clothing flinging one another to the mat.

Give me the UFC any day, or womens' mud wrestling. Gymnastics has its moments, particularly if one of those little guys with the big arms makes a mistake and flies off the apparatus. Female gymnasts are real pixies, tiny little girls who all look like they're about nine years old and fly around like something out of a Disney movie, Tinkerbell perhaps or Peter Pan.

Controversy abounds or that's what the announcers would have you believe when, for instance, a 15-year-old Chinese girl breaks a world record in the pool and betters the men's time for the same event.

"Disturbing" one old IOC fart said. She must be on something. Chinese food certainly wouldn't make you that fast.

Then there's a rather fascinating story of that young female runner whose gender is being questioned after she left the rest of the field in her dust. They may have to come up with another category for the Games: hermaphroditism or neutral.

Speaking of sex, there's one interesting statistic that caught my eye: the number of condoms distributed to the Olympic Village - 150,000.

All those fit young athletes, you've gotta know they're doing more than just running, jumping, and throwing.

Hope Solo - a gold medal for that name - who is the goaltender for the U.S. women's soccer team, confirms that athletes are "hooking up" in the village.

This could be a whole other Games with awards for activities that won't appear in this family newspaper. Who are we to deny these young people their fun, after all that arduous training and competing, all that travelling throughout the world.

You used to have to join the army to see the world. Now, if you work hard enough on that ping-pong table in the basement, you could end up in Brazil in 2016.

t3atyler@shaw.ca