The whole rotten edifice of Lance Armstrong’s dream world comes crashing down and I’m so busy fangirling over Bernard Tomic I barely have time to enjoy the full reveal of the cold, calculated glory of Armstrong’s sociopathic nature. What can I say. It’s a rich life. It’s also one full of extremely flawed men. Some of them are the greatest sportspeople of our age; the rest of them are my ex-boyfriends.
I love Tomic and I kind of like Lance Armstrong too, or at least I did until yesterday. The more strident his lies the more I liked him. The chilling demeanour, the callous disregard for others, the brutal denials, the cancerous balls, calling that female accuser a fat prostitute… I also recognised the ‘if something’s worth doing it’s worth doing right’ ethos inherent in his diabolical master-plan – my favourite ethos, as it were.
Jonathan Horn in The Age criticised the people who have come after Armstrong wielding flame-throwers:
“All sense of proportion has been lost. Lance Armstrong isn’t Jimmy Savile. He isn’t the subject of a royal commission. In an ethically bereft sport, he was the dirtiest, the hardest and the best.”
It’s been real.