THE Commonwealth Games is like TV wallpaper. You put it on and hours later you realise you should have changed channels ages ago.
It's like hypnosis, it draws you into a TV stupor.
There's the odd exciting bit when the Commonwealth nations race against each other, then dull, tedious episodes where they interview people and consult the studio expert.
I've now worked out what it is that keeps me glued.
Clearly, it's not the sport, or the commentary, it's Melbourne.
Watching the TV presenters in their studio you can see the sun rise over Melbourne, live.
I sat glued to the triathlon desperately trying to block out all the athletes so I could catch a glimpse of this beautiful city.
Melbourne is my Mecca. I went once and something about the palm trees, the ocean, the Greek and Italian quarters, the culture, the sunshine, the Asian food, the fine wine, the outdoor lifestyle, the beaches and bars, spoke to me.
I don't know why. Crazy I know.
And so I watch the Commonwealth Games glimpsing the streets of St Kilda, snatching a palm tree here, a bit of ocean there, as if it's the Holiday Show without the annoying presenters being paid to have a great time on our behalf.
If only all those sports people would get out of the way.
If it was held in Coventry, then I could switch off.
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