You'd have to question the wisdom of those in charge of the Guardian sports section. Each week they hand over the keys to this here prime piece of real estate to a man who won't get to do any building on it done until late on a Thursday night, after he's already been on stage for a couple of hours and has then drunk off the adrenaline. It's only at this point that attention gets turned to the major sporting issues of the day.

This is not the time to be making good decisions, after all. And that would explain that while my head is saying, "Write the kind-hearted, gently funny piece about the Winter Olympics!", my heart is screaming, "No, do the piece you'd really enjoy; the one with the headline 'What is the conspiracy of silence about Steven Gerrard's inner ear problems?'"

This would be the piece that wonders why the British sports media are so shy to point out that the Liverpool captain has the tendency, in the latter stages of a match, in the deeper recess of the opposition's half, and at moments of great need, to lose his balance. I believe the term used is "went down easily". This is harsh, though, as whenever he goes down, even as he falls, his arms are already outstretched, as if to say "Why me? Why must I be the victim of this terrible inner ear problem? What redress can I get for this terrible affliction to my cochlear canals? A free-kick maybe?"

Obviously there isn't anything more to it than that, what with English players being "too honest" to dive (copyright: John Terry).

And for the record; Cesc Fábregas handled the ball. Deliberately. Saw it coming, didn't want it to go in the net, stopped it with his hand. Shame on him. Shame.

So let's move on to the Winter Olympics, shall we?

Forty kinds of sliding! An entire global sporting festival based on the absence of friction! Albeit one with no snow!

I say global event. Obviously, even the quadrennial winter sports devotee like myself has to admit, the Winter Olympics is probably the Biggest Thing in the world which isn't actually a Big Thing. It must drive devotees of golf, say, or cricket, crazy to see the kind of marginal stuff that makes the cut in the Winter Olympics, when they can't get a sniff of the summer Games.

This isn't the most interesting thing about them, though. No, what makes the Winter Olympics compelling is the bizarre and unique culture clash at its heart. For many years, snowy sports were the preserve of the central European set, the Gstaad crowd. It was Mittel-European aristos and 70s socialites. It was like the Olympics for David Niven and Roger Moore, with Alan Whicker doing the commentary. "And the winner of the Grand Slalom is… Baron von Frühstuck III!" That sort of thing.

Then the x-treme sports crowd moved in. It was all half-pipes and 720s. Suddenly the anthems being played during the medal ceremonies were by Nirvana and the air had taken a distinctly herbal smell.

Now, the Winter Olympics is like some sort of crazy buddy movie. He's… the stuck-in-the-mud Swiss blueblood with the downhill skis! And he's… the stoner dude who won't play by the rules! How can they possibly get along?

Very well, actually. Nothing works better with the munchies than some melted cheese. Hence the easy coexistence of marijuana and fondue.

There may be some lessons, though, in how the events themselves have changed in the new era. Essentially, the big innovation has been to take stuff that used to be against the clock and make it head-to-head. Hence the ski cross and the short-track speed skating. In each, a previously purist sport has been improved by the simple addition of a handful of other competitors under the same starter's gun. Where once the course was clear and technique was king, now the elbows are flying.

What a model it would make for the summer Games.

This is the dream. A summer Olympics where the show-jumpers leave six at a time and nudge each other into the walls, hooves flying. Where the asymmetric bars have a queue.

And as the starter's gun fires, a hushed stadium watches, open-mouthed, as four pole-vaulters set off down the runway, sticks aloft. As they build up speed, their eyes focus on the one small hole in front of them. Who will get there first?

Melted cheese anyone?