Olympics 2012

Marmite. Olives. James Blunt. The London 2012 logo. You either love them or loathe them. No half measures, no, "occasionally on toast," or, "if they're stuffed with little bits of almonds," about it.

It's black and white, yes or no.

But I'm weakening. Like a dipsomaniac at his first AA meeting, the hardest part is admitting the problem. So I have to make a confession. I like the latest version of the 2012 Logo. I do. I really DO. There. I've said it.

I was at that whacky presentation last year when the logo was unveiled, and it was hauntingly reminiscent of a certain 1930's fascist emblem. Then I blinked, bent my head a bit and suddenly saw it in a lovely flourescent shade of snot-green instead.

Nice. I was listening to the messages: great approval ratings from yoof focus groups. I saw the graffitiesque possibilities, the manga-comic hipness, and I bought the flexible, dynamic, adaptable part of the sell.

But I still didn't like it. They used it as a frame within which to project sporty images, and I thought it was clever. But not likeable.

Then some people claimed the moving versions sparked headaches and were worried about epileptic fits, and you all hated it and campaigns to bin it got tens of thousands of signatures.

And all the international publicity meant they could quietly put to one side any budget there once might've been for marketing the image because it had been on the news, in the papers and on the web so often, that EVERYONE knew what it was already.

Since then, I've seen all the colour permutations, the pillar box red, the oak-leaf green, the pastel yellow, the powder blue. Sometimes with all the colours mixed together in quadrants like a badly-judged home made 3am pizza.

I've seen the pink lapel ones proudly displayed, mainly on light grey business suits by renowned heterosexuals clearly in touch with their feminine side, (but hey, comfortable with that.) I reckon blue's the choice of the contractually obliged, and yellow sported by the, "I don't-give-a-stuffers."

But for all those who wearily unclip that pin of a morning, and insert it afresh to another flap of cloth, relief is at hand because at last...genius.

The Union Flag. Wey hey. It's cool Britannia, without the naff tea party at number 10. It's Noel Gallagher's flag-emblazoned Epiphone Sheraton guitar, cranking out the riff to Morning Glory.

It's the GB vest stretched over Sir Steve Regrave's pecs, or Denise Lewis' six-pack.

At last, it has made a connection for me with sporting success, pride and national identity. Hurrah.

I'm off to make a yeast extract tapenade. You're Beautiful.