I don't care that it's not cool. I love the fact that this thing goes back to 1896 and the Ancient Greeks. I love the breathtaking stakes - the way people train for years and years for one moment of potential glory. And I love the purity of the competition. Doping and gymnastics judge jokes aside, the markers for who wins and who doesn't are clear to see. Sometimes painfully so.

The narrative of the Games has a way of grabbing us by the collar and keeping us up until the wee hours. Shake your head now and say the Olympics is just a corporate sponsorship event with a side order of sport, but I bet you'll be super glued to the TV sometime between now and August 12 - engrossed in a sport you have never watched before and barracking for a country you've never been to. The Olympics are also about narrative at the national level. The feeling that any Aussie medals are our medals too (as taxpayers, don't we contribute?) And that they somehow make us a better people in the process.

I was lucky enough to sit in the cheap seats of Sydney's Homebush stadium on that balmy September evening in 2000. The sound of the crowd cheering Catherine Freeman around those 49.13 seconds was one of the most electrifying things I have ever heard.

The Olympics don't just have to be about the grand gestures, however. The seemingly littler things - such as making a final or finishing the marathon - can be pretty uplifting and awesome too. There are stories everywhere you look. This week, as we've worked up a healthy glow of anticipation, the Olympics previews have come at a kilometre a minute.

How many (gold, gold, gold!!!) medals are we going to win? Are we going to beat the Poms? Will rain make the last two questions redundant? Where are the top 10 places to get a coffee in East London? And most prominently of all, is Leisel Jones fat?

Earlier this week, Australia was rocked by images of the champion breaststroker, caught - apparently unawares - during a training session and not looking quite as cut as James Magnussen.

First came the furore over the fact that Lethal Leisel might not be in killer, medal-capturing form. And that maybe this was because her attitude wasn't in the right place.

Then came the follow-up furore that people were calling Our Lethal's physique into question on the eve of the Olympics. And the accompanying furores that this might be misogynist, cruel and worst of all … unAustralian.

The whole thing was a perfect storm. On the one hand, criticising people's bodies is one of Australia's most popular sports anyway. Check out the covers of any gossip magazine and they will invariably have blazing headlines about who's looking fat, who's looking thin and who's looking just plain weird (for example, NW this week had: ''Ouch! Bony Body Shocks!'').

Scrutinising the size and shape of famous people as if they were something between a scientific specimen and a contemporary artwork makes us feel better about our own blemishes and blubber. Doing this under the pseudo legitimising cover of ''it's just about the sport'' and ''form at the Olympics matters'' only adds to the fun.

On the other hand, the photos of Jones tapped into another well-established part of the Australian psyche: the bit that says you can't frown on a sporting ''hero''. Just as it's public opinion poison to criticise an Australian soldier, have a go at an Olympian and you're automatically the most evil bastard on earth.

It's all equally ridiculous and one can only hope that Jones is paying it no attention whatsoever and concentrating on her first race instead. Indeed, as the Big O kicks off for real, it will be a relief to focus on the Games themselves. Because what makes the Olympics so captivating and nut-worthy are the stories that come from the sport. Not the sport that comes from the stories.

Judith Ireland is a Canberra Times journalist.