All right, I admit it, I’m nearly excited

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TWO days now.

Just two days, and then the running, the jumping, the throwing and the lifting begins. Two days, and then the sport replaces the security, the sponsors and the sheer costs as the topic of national conversation.

And if you’re not excited about that, consider this: in just 18 days, it will be all over for good.

It’s been a marathon, my fellow Olympic sceptics, but our finishing line – August 12 – is in sight. If this was the steeplechase, the Kenyans would be starting to sprint.

In mere weeks, we will all be able to go back to our normal lives. Which is to say, we can hopefully welcome Jess back a winner and then go back to forgetting the finer points of the heptathlon scoring system.

And yet – how about this? – as the actual games themselves draw nearer I find myself rather looking forward to them.

Not the women’s football, obviously. Nor the shooting or the archery or any of those other events which aren’t really sports at all but which, presumably, are included to tick inclusivity boxes or something.

But to the actual proper stuff; the athletics and the rowing and the swimming, the running, the jumping, the throwing and the lifting.

I wouldn’t say I’m excited – not like I would be about a mid-table Premiership match on Monday night Sky, anyway – but there’s definitely a feeling of... intrigue perhaps?

Will Usain Bolt break the 100-metres world record?

Can Victoria Pendleton cycle her way to gold? Does anyone have any idea what that hideous sculpture outside the stadium is meant to represent?

Like a parliamentary committee grilling G4S boss Nick Buckles, there are plenty of questions to be answered.

Personally, I still say the BBC is going overboard.

As if building a dedicated studio and showing more TV coverage than there are hours in the day aren’t enough, among the corporation’s other touches are a website featuring a Twitter-graph where visitors can see how many times the words ‘London 2012’ has been posted in the last 24 hours. Exactly 91,340 at the time of writing, folks. Fascinating – perhaps only outdone by the series of charts illustrating the height of every basketball player. Ahem. Or perhaps not.

But overkill aside, I’m beginning to agree the enthusiasm is understandable.

Because, for the next three weeks, the spotlight of sporting history will shine on a small cauldron in Stratford, where the most physically supreme people to ever walk – or run – the planet will do battle against one another for no other reason than simply to be remembered as the best.

Even when you boil that down to some bloke chucking a javelin in a half-full stadium, there’s still something special about it.

So, yes I know there have been a million things wrong with the sponsorship, the security and the sheer cost but, after all that, now it’s here and now it’s happening no matter how much sceptics like me say the money should have been spent elsewhere, it’s hard not to be excited by the excitement.

Even Boris Johnson has had a haircut.

Sit back and enjoy, I reckon. Because, you know, in 18 days it will all be over.