Crikey, what now? No sooner had the Olympic candle, that has shone brightly on top of the telly these past 17 days, been extinguished by the dregs from the last can of Castlemaine XXXX then the tears began to well.

When the blinds were opened for the first time since the ballet of lawnmowers in the opening ceremony (when they were shut in case the neighbours would see us foxtrotting about the living room with the Flymo), daylight stung the eyes with all the venom of one of those humongous jellyfish you find chilling out in Homebush Bay.

That's the trouble with major televised sporting events - they generally tend to come to an end. And life, once you've found one, must go on. But Lord, you know it ain't easy.

Having lived in the company of Ian Thorpe, Cathy Freeman, Steve Redgrave, Eric Moussambani and Bill O'Herlihy the past fortnight and a half, it's hard to readjust to the company of mere mortals.

When Australian country and western legend Slim Dusty appeared towards the end of yesterday's closing ceremony and broke in to a plaintive rendition of Waltzing Maltida (no, not "I'm Slim Dusty, yes I'm the real Dusty") it all became too much.

There were some people on the pitch (athletes from 199 nations to be exact), we feared it was all over and when the jolly swagman camped by a billabong we said "it is now", and we bawled again.

Nikki Webster was 13 when she starred in the opening ceremony, by the end of the closing ceremony she was legally entitled to buy alcohol. Then there were the 50 marching drag queens whose pre-publicised presence in the parade had caused consternation in some Australian quarters.

"Lot's of people are going to be very disturbed," warned the Reverend Fred Nile while Elizabeth Scott of the New South Wales Council of Churches called the queens "unrepresentative" of Australian culture. D'you know, after watching both the opening and closing ceremonies I'm not entirely sure about that.

All we can say is thank heavens the artistic director of the show wasn't subjected to the same, ahem, stringent mind-blowing

drug-testing procedures the athletes, ahem, endured since they touched down Down Under.

Highlight of the parade was when Kylie Minogue appeared on a giant rubber flipflop pulled by lots of beefy lifeguards wearing shower caps and nappies. Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi, Oi, Oi! Fantastic. Kylie was, needless to say, fabalis, her version of Dancing Queen having us bopping with the Flymo one last time. And who'd have thought Men at Work were still alive, eh?

Then it was fireworks time. A bit impressive it was too, especially when the Sydney Opera House appeared to catch fire from the exploding bridge over the harbour. "Ooops," we said, but once the smoke settled it was, mercifully, still there.

You have to hand it to the Aussies, the two ceremonies weren't half as awful as you'd expect, largely because they displayed a charming ability to take the mickey out of themselves (see inflatable kangaroo the size of the Empire State building). It's a quality we can only pray future major-event-hosting nations acquire. Hello Athens?

Of course, apart from Sonia's heroics, it was a bummer of an Olympics for RTE whose presenters spent much of the 17 days wearing "I hate to tell you this" expressions as they told us of yet another sub-standard Irish performance. What we can safely say, though, is that most, if not all, of our athletes at these Games were very definitely not under the influence of performance-enhancing drugs, and that's a proud boast.

What we also know now is (a) that it's not the competing that matters, it's the beating of at least one of your opponents in your heat and (b) we're a third-world sporting nation. Any chance of the powers-that-be taking sport seriously as of now and doing something about this fine mess we've got ourselves into? Ah go on, go on, go on.

Highlights. Sonia, of course. Wonderful. Cathy Freeman for coping heroically with the hopes, nay, demands of a nation. And Paula Radcliffe for possibly the most stirring performance of the Olympic Games when she led Saturday's 10,000-metres final until near the end, when she was run out of the medals.

Cynical and all as we might be, when you witness a display of such heart you'd almost rediscover your sporting innocence, if you weren't careful. Good luck Athens, you've a hell of an act to follow. Now, where's the front door?