'Get me Peter Elliott…'

Can anyone, anyone at all, man, woman or child, explain to me what on earth Denise Van Outen was doing carrying the Olympic torch? 

Obviously we are not the world's most illustrious sporting nation, but surely there was some figure of vaguely athletic competence who could spare half an hour? Is Kris Akabusi ex-directory these days?

Let us imagine what was going through the organisers' minds. 

'Well, Matthew Pinsent has a bit of a head cold. He just feels a bit, oh, you know, run down. So we need someone else.' 

'Can we get James Cracknell?'

'Swimming down the Ganges.'

'Ian Wright?'

'Tonsilitis.'

'Mick Hill?

'He's at a wedding in Cumbria.'  

'John Fashanu?'

'Doing a matinee of Oh What A Night in Bromley.'

'Well, in that case…'

I have just watched a documentary about the torch relay, showing how the flame was lit with great solemnity using the rays of the sun in Olympia. How better to continue this dignified ceremony than with one of the flame-bearers winking at the camera, chirping, 'My wrist's getting tired. Oof, that's not what I normally say!'

Give me strength.