Frankly, I only wanted to see the ping-pong — in particular the match where North Korea were due to play South Korea. Because they would have no supporters with them, I planned to cheer along the North in this noble sport. But as it was, fairweather friend that I am, I ditched them for an upgrade to the lawn tennis, having been offered a seat at Wimbledon to watch Andy Murray beat Djokovic in the semi-finals on Centre Court.

How, you are wondering, did I manage this? The answer is simple corruption. A friend of a friend turned out to be involved with the International Olympic Committee. I had always thought the IOC was rotten. But the moment the ticket materialised I dropped all objections, even to the Zil lanes, and embraced the fact. For one halcyon evening I was one of the elect, ferried between venues by volunteers who had given up their holidays to perform the task.  One asked where we were from. My companions gave various replies while I kept my head down. I hoped the driver would suspect me of being some influential IOC official who only spoke in foreign tongues, and not merely another Londoner.

In any case, I have now solved the problem Rio and every other Olympic city will always face. The best way to stop people moaning is to give everybody the tiniest taste of what they are moaning about. Swanning past the traffic just once more than made up for weeks of gridlock.

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