JENNI MURRAY: Reason why the Olympics is so tedious

Right,’ I said to myself, ‘Olympics. This time you shall overcome this niggly old lady attitude you’ve had towards sport. You will learn to watch it without complaint, and you will love it.’

There was some possibility this might come to pass. I’d been persuaded to watch the football earlier in the year and had to admit I had not altogether hated it. There had been occasions when I’d noticed some very fancy footwork which was almost balletic.

Could the Olympics win me over with its much-publicised insistence on equality and the boast that there’d be equal numbers of men and women in this year’s competition?

The answer turns out to be a resounding no. Things didn’t get off to a thrilling start with the unbearably dull opening ceremony. Who was the man playing the piano in the pouring rain?

Why a group of drag artists pretending to be at the Last Supper? Joan of Arc on a horse on the Seine was amazing for five minutes, but for 15? I only stuck with it because there was absolutely nothing else to watch.

And as for the claims of equality. I could not have been more appalled than when I discovered that two boxers who were previously banned from the world championships for failing gender tests are to be allowed to compete in the women’s event.

The International Olympic Committee say Imane Khelif of Algeria and Lin Yu-ting of Taiwan meet the eligibility criteria despite having previously been found to have elevated testosterone levels, possibly the result of medical conditions present at birth.

I can’t say I approve of boxing at all, but I wouldn’t face their fists and I hope other competitors will say the same.

But apart from that debacle, my overwhelming sensation is tedium. I’ve tried, honestly I’ve tried, but where is the gripping drama I hoped for? Even watching a number of young women cycling fast round lethally dangerous bends in the pouring rain on Sunday, there was no drama, only a couple of nasty falls. Yes, they must have hurt a lot, but they bravely got up and got back on the bikes.

I couldn’t go on watching because I was too furious about the mess the Games had made of Paris — the most beautiful city in the world.

My favourite spot, the Pont Alexandre III, was the site for the cycling. But you couldn’t see its beauty because there were gaudy Olympic posters and hoardings covering up its exquisite statues.

Maybe their aim was to protect the bridge, but I couldn’t bear what they’d done to spoil it.

I went to a birthday party on Sunday afternoon with old friends and mercifully no one was talking about the Olympics or, indeed, any kind of sport — men and women alike. OK, many of us discussed knee and hip replacements, struggling with hearing aids and how lazy we’ve become thanks to the joys of Deliveroo, but it was a wonderful, sport-free day.

Come Monday evening and time to relax with a bit of TV, it was back to endless swimming on BBC. I felt a bit sorry for Adam Peaty who missed gold by a fraction of a second. While it’s lovely to see all those beautiful, lithe young bodies diving in as straight as ramrods, the races are dull — just capped heads bobbing along at speed. There was a short interlude to show the amazing diving skills of Tom Daley and his partner, then more swimming.

I stopped watching. It wasn’t just that I was bored, I was jealous. I used to swim like they do. Maybe not as fast, but I was good. Then I broke a vertebra in my spine last year. The orthopaedic consultant recommended swimming for rehab. First day in the pool I launched myself into breaststroke, and sank as my body just rolled over. It’s not uncommon according to my physio — but lots more practice will be needed to keep the back straight.

I’ve thought a lot about why sport is generally so unattractive to we older women. For so long we were left out. No football, no cricket, just look pretty and make the tea.

Then raising all those young swimmers with their tough training schedules. But who was punished with early rises, drives to the pool and waiting to take them to school with no hope of a gold medal for themselves? Mum, of course.

So, yet again, I’ve been baffled by the excitement of the Olympics. Even when it was in London, I avoided it like the plague.

‘Come with me, Mum, said my son. ‘It’s great.’ I stayed at home.

And this year? I’ve settled for watching an episode of Vera which I’d seen ages ago instead. Not much fun in a detective drama when you know the identity of the murderer.

Jen’s got double the star power 

How odd to be out on the street with someone who looks like your twin but isn’t. Jennifer Aniston’s body double in the Apple tv series The Morning Show is Kelly Phelan. Same hair, same shirt, same bag, same creases in the trousers. How come Jennifer’s a big star and Kelly isn’t? She looks great. She should be.

Why did all my our family GPs vanish? 

The health secretary, Wes Streeting, has proposed that we should all have a family GP like we had in the old days. Well, of course we should, Mr Streeting, but I hope you’ve thoroughly worked out how you’re going to arrange that.

Because with GPs set to strike for an improved contract, that ideal has never seemed further away. They’re disappointed to have been given only a 6 per cent salary increase while junior doctors are getting 22 per cent after their own devastating strikes.

I remember Dr Murdoch, our family GP when I was growing up. She was tough, kind, knew all her patients individually and was always there when she was needed. She came to my home frequently during my bad bout of the measles when I was three. I think she saved my life.

Will that sort of care even be possible now, when you can be sent to see any one of half a dozen doctors in the average practice? And when, if GPs strike, they are threatening to cut an average of 50 appointments a day down to 25?

Since GPs are our only route to more complex medical help, this is terrifying. We need them – and more appointments, not fewer.

We don’t take any rubbish up North

I’m sure the person at North Yorkshire Council who decided it would be clever to use dialect for an ad telling people to ‘put their rubbish in the bin’ thought they’d done brilliantly when they came up with: ‘Gerrit in’t Bin’. Oh dear, what a pity. Best intentions destroyed by an apostrophe in the wrong place. That should read: ‘Gerrit in t’bin.’

Personally, as something of an expert in these matters, I’d have used chuck.

‘Chuck it in t’bin’ is what we’d say in Barnsley.

I interviewed a lot of women in my 33 years on Woman’s Hour, but few were like the author Edna O’Brien, who died on Saturday. No one has changed the lives of women through their art in the way she has. I loved her.

There’s been much debate about Hannah Neeleman, the American ‘trad wife’ of Ballerina Farm who has 10million Instagram followers. Stay at home or work? Not everyone has a choice like Hannah who is married to a billionaire.