THERE are some aspects of the sporting life that mystify me.

Three of the hardy perennials of the Olympics take the gold, silver and bronze medals in the category for baffling, tedious hoopla.

I bow to no-one in my admiration for the Olympics. This is because I have a bad back. It is also because I enjoy the smorgasbord of sport on offer. But with three substantial quibbles. Which sounds like a sort of cheese snack. But no matter.

The bronze medal for nonsense goes to the much-stated notion that the Olympics is some sort of amateur celebration of the right and proper values of sport. It ain't. It is professional sport with the occasional non-recreational drug throw in. The Olympics has been known for having more dodgy substances than a crack house \ in Compton.

There will be those competitors who insist it is all about taking part but they will not be on the podium. This stuff is as serious as the expression on the face of a Greek banker.

The silver medal for hoopla is awarded to the Olympic torch hyperbole. Now, it is lovely that it is coming to a street near you. It is heart-warming, particularly if you fall on it. It is wonderful that so many local heroes have been asked to carry the torch. But the sentiment accompanying the travels has been so sweet it can induce diabetes and the language has been daft.

I heard one television commentator describing the torch as "the sacred flame". It is the "sacred flame" in the same way as an aeroplane is the "big iron bird in the sky". The torch is a match with delusions of grandeur. The days of being entranced by fire are surely far behind mankind, save for pockets of High Possil.

The torch's progress around Britain is a local story. It should be treated as such. It is perfectly understandable if people want to stand out in the rain and watch a man/woman carrying a bit of fire. I once stood for decades up to my oxters in effluent watching 22 men chasing after an inflated sphere, so I am in no position to judge. But I would suggest the progress of a bit of bling spewing fire up a hill in High Wallop should not be an essential part of the 10 o'clock news.

The gold medal for hype, though, will go to the opening ceremony. Surely all that was needed was a very big pair of scissors, a length of ribbon and the Queen saying: "I declare these Games open."

Instead, the opening ceremony has a budget of £80m. That's right. One could revive and book Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley for that dosh with a herd of unicorns carrying the flags of all the nations and still have change left to save Rangers, have a night at the pictures and a fish supper.

The problem with ceremonies at big events is that they are only decent when Diana Ross misses an open goal or Janet Jackson has a wardrobe malfunction. The traditional opening ceremony consists of naff songs, synchronised dancing, lots of lights and a bit of fireworks. It is the equivalent of the Eurovision Song Contest being held on bonfire night.

The problem for London is that £80m is not going to do it in the spectacular stakes. To overcome the triumph of opening night in Beijing, the organisers will need a budget more attuned to the needs of Nasa.

The best bet is not to go down the line of a mass dance to dodgy music with lots of waving about. Or a cairry-oot as it is known in the hamlets of North Glasgow.

No, the Olympic organisers must come up with something original. The idea of Chas and Dave belting out a few favourites around the old piano has its merits. There will be calls for a massed march of the Pearly Queens, though these should be resisted.

The best idea is to take the £80m and change it all in £5 notes. These should be piled high and the Olympic torch, carried by George Gideon Osborne, should be applied to its mass.

The result would be a marvellous, flaming commentary on the Age of Austerity. Well, I would watch it.