After five days of Olympic red-button surfing, it was time to actually leave the house and enter the Olympic Park.
What a glorious goldrush of a weekend! Yes, we might be a nation whom, in side profile, resemble lovely squashy Wenlock, but in our souls we are all OLYMPIANS! Go Farah. Hooray for Ennis. You, lovely man with the red hair, jumping in the sand, you're great (and shhh! Not so much about your pretty girlfriend, please).
All you smashing people at the rowing who keep winning medals – whom John Inverdale insists on tormenting with "how do you feel?" questions as you lie in a heap, eyes rolling in the back of your head coughing up chunks of spleen – we love you guys!
All you men on the big climbing Pommel thing covered in felt who whizz about nearly squashing your nadgers, good work!
By the way, everyone doing that sport where you throw the metal spear and try to hit a member of the Olympic family in a hat with clipboard, this needs more work, you're missing by metres, but we adore you, too.
I'm welling up just thinking about the closing ceremony
After this weekend's goldrush, pressure is building on Spandau Ballet's Tony Hadley to Febreeze his best trews and stand on a closing ceremony podium to honk through Gold. Obviously, this would be marvellous (especially if the Kemp Brothers performed in Spandex velodrome-type outfits) as well as very emotional, although it must be noted my quality control on "emotional" is slightly askew.
In the past three days I've snivelled at heavily pregnant Tania Farah trying to manoeuvre her bump down a set of steps post-race, and I've welled up at Ian "Thorpedo" Thorpe doing his final punditry work. We shall not forget you, Thorpedo. Why aren't you staying for the syncro swimming? As if that's got any rules.
I've had a "moment" at the unbroadcast footage – find it on the BBC website – of Denise Lewis and Colin Jackson absolutely losing their marbles as Mo Farah strides home. Everyone needs to see the typically serene Denise Lewis go gold-plated bonkers. Not forgetting that lovely honest moment when Sophie Hosking and Katherine Copeland won the lightweight skulls, wibbling adorably: "We've… won the Olympics!"
I'm now so emotional that if Tony Hadley won't play dice on closing night I'd weep at Rick Witter from Shed Seven clanking through Going for Gold, Simple Minds doing New Gold Dream or, better than all of that, one of the ladies from my favourite drag-cabaret bar Molly Moggs in Soho singing Goldfinger merging into Hero by Mariah, then Proud by Heather Small.
Sadly, I'm not a "gamesmaker" so I've not been consulted.
Oof. Now is a tough time to be one of the 'Made in Chelsea' set
Saturday's medal bonanza also saw the national psyche (ahem, thousands of sofa-athletes typing sozzled thoughts into Twitter) appearing to reject bad role models and rubbish celebrities.
Oof, it's a tough time to be one of the Made In Chelsea cast, John Terry and that geezer off Britain's Got Talent who couldn't find his keys and his mobile phone. All those poor buggers sitting in the Big Brother house are all more anonymous now than when they went in. It sucks to be you. Imogen Thomas, several spare Kardashians, Samantha Brick and Pascal, Ice-T's wife – who should probably just teach her bare behind to speak then start entering rooms backwards – Calum "he's a ladies man" Best and the Cheeky Girls. Your time is up.
From now on – according to the zeitgeist – we shall only award excellence. Women shall only be allowed on the front-cover of magazines if they've eaten 12 boiled eggs that morning and their party-trick is cracking a walnut with their glutes while making confetti out of the Yellow Pages. Or maybe this will all end and we'll go back to round-the-clock monitoring of Cheryl Cole again. You decide.