Watching the Olympics these past few weeks has filled me with a mixture of pride and pain. I wasn't necessarily proud of the achievements of Team GB, but rather my great-great uncle, Lord Armitage Shanks, who took home a silver from the Antwerp Games in 1920. His event? Freestyle incest.
But the sight of competitive sports on the TV always stirs up bad memories in me; I was always very poor at games in school - during the cross country race, I somehow got lost and wandered onto a horse-racing track. I was doing well until I fell at the final furlong and was nearly euthanised.
Because of my sporting ineptitude, I was horribly bullied by the other boys. The chief bully, one Kenwood Sparks, would play cruel practical jokes on me. I lost count of the amount of times he tied my shoelaces together and then punched me in the face, and put cling film over my toilet and then punched me in the face, and ordered 25 pizzas to be delivered to my house and then punched me in the face.
Eventually I grew weary of the constant punishment, and got a transfer to the elite Johann Hari School for Liberal Young People, where the other boys would steal my dinner money and donate half to Amnesty International.