Richard Clarke

Every four years, without fail, I take up an interest in a new sport. Despite never being the most demonstrative of fans, I pace the room as the curling goes to the last end. Or chukka. Or whatever the hell they call it. Likewise, canoe slalom gets me going when a guy I had never previously heard of fails to duck under that dangling pole when paddling upstream and, for a while, even dressage ceases to be dancing for horses but a discipline of national importance.
At the 2012 Olympics, I dropped a good few hundred quid on taking the family to Windsor for the heats of the rowi...