Memorable Games have included Los Angeles in 1984, just for the sheer Hollywoodness of it all and for weightlifter Dean Lukin for his un-Hollywoodness, the big tuna fisherman from South Australia still holds a special place in my heart.

And my heart does belong to the Olympics. I used the line "I'm going to my room to watch the wrestling" on someone in 1988, my sister and I had sent herograms to the Australian wrestling team because we thought everyone else would be sending them to the more fashionable swim team or something, and vowed, even though I was away at university to watch every bout we could when Dan Cumming, Cris Brown and Wally Koening were grappling with their competitors.

It was late during one university shindig and I'd had a few West Coast Coolers, and had struck up a conversation with a lovely young man. But Wally, he became my favourite, was due to go up against Abdul Majeed from Pakistan in the second round of the men's light-heavyweight freestyle round two bout (and no I don't remember these details so precisely, thanks Google) and I had to choose between the likely prospect in the bar and my Wally.

And I chose Wally. And the prospect chose me. Wally lost. I won. And, for a while there at least, we celebrated our Olympiad anniversaries.

And then there was Syd-e-ney. What a spectacle! Managed to scam some tickets to a hockey game and a night of athletics in the big smoke and snuck up to a couple of football games here. Bought the t-shirt, kept the souvenir programs. Will probably never attend another Games in my lifetime.

And then London. How clever was that opening ceremony. No number of small angelic blonde people suspended from wires, or jiggling Carnivale boobies will ever top it. From the moment Daniel Craig picked up Her Majesty from the Palace and dropped her into the Olympic Stadium, the opening ceremony was a barrel of laughs, clever, irreverent, funny, just stupendously hilarious. I mean Mr Bean. Do yourself a favour and watch it again during the Rio marathon or something.

And now we're in Rio. I think. There's been so much written about the extraordinary problems facing the Games, from the problems with the athletes' village, to the water pollution, to the Russian doping scandal, that for a while there I was wondering when IOC President Thomas Bach would ring Clover Moore, the Right Honourable Lord Mayor of Sydney and say ask if they could just come back

And am I the only one who is unsure about what television station the Games are actually on? With all the changes in our regional networks I might have to resort to reading about it in the newspaper.

I'm sure, once that flame is lit I'll probably get into the mood. How many other opportunities are there to watch hockey on free to air after all. I'll watch the mountain biking, and the diving, don't mind a bit of equestrian with all its plummy commentary. A bit of gymnastics for Nadia's sake. And of course the rugby sevens. I'll try to avoid swimming and athletics, all though I do like the idea of that moving blue world record line in the pool, that's made it a bit more exciting. And the wrestling. I won't miss a bout of the wrestling if I can help it. And hopefully, Wally, my Wally, now 58 and teaching wrestling to underprivileged kids at the Mount Druitt Police Citizen's Youth Club, will stir himself out of bed and be watching too.

That's the Olympic dream isn't it?