Just one more race and I'll go to bed...

I’ll admit I was more than cynical about the Olympics. For starters I’m not a sports fan; the ADD mind rarely follows it, not to mention a smidge of 'brain over brawn' snobbery, and memories of being picked last for netball. I also saw obscene amounts of money being spent during a time where average people get overcome with apologetic guilt if they buy new shoes. I also get as nervous around times of patriotism and national pride as the next lefty-liberal, faintly embarrassed by the flag waving and whitewash of red white and blue, especially while the EDL prowl and their BNP cousins flood every news forum with their 'British pride'. Plus I take issue with the tax dodging, the usual corporate evil masterminding, the shiny logos and the McSponsorships - it all made me want to flee to a sunny beach with a stack of novels until it was over.

And yet, thanks in no small part to Danny Boyle beckoning me in with his selective retrospect of British history as a socialist, feminist, multicultural utopia – chucking in some Bowie, flying bicycles and a lesbian kiss to seal the deal – I am now officially hooked. From a benign game of badminton on the first day, to a whole Sunday morning dedicated to the women's cycling road race; my office, dining room and bedroom have slowly migrated to the sofa in front of the telly, as I have fallen into the dizzying first days of a slippery addiction...

Hello, I’m Emma and I’m an Olympaholic.

I cannot tear myself away. Not only has the action been exciting but I’ve found an interest in sports I barely knew existed before – synchronised diving, who knew? Kyaking! Not just the pursuit of backpackers with too much disposable income – and don't get me started on handball! However, for me, it is the human element that has been so inspiring and, in particular, the women. After reading a few jaded articles by grumbling feminists about how much men like to ogle the beach vollyballers – as if they’re shutting their eyes when the male divers come on, please – and how women don’t get as much kudos (or coinage) as the men, I would have to add a respectful 'but...'

The London 2012 Olympics has done wonders for the good name of feminism, if not by the games, then certainly by the players. From the suffragettes striding out while the captains of industry did their Hakka during the opening ceremony – apparently, afterwards they were spotted backstage afterwards kicking the shit out of Mitt Romney, but this has yet to be confirmed – to the fact that this is the first ever Olympics where every single country has at least one women representing, there's more than a whiff of progesterone in the air.

But even more than this, the thing that I really, really love about the Olympics is that they're giving us a smorgasbord of women role models that our young generation of girls have been starved of for so long. The plaintive cry of the modern feminist mum and teacher of ‘where are the positive role models for young British girls these days?!’ has been answered – they’re here. Here are bodies being judged on ability and hard work, not what shade of orange they’ve been painted; how many goals they score in football, not what footballer they’re married to, and how high they can jump and not how high their heels are.

And it’s not just the sporty element; these women have everything you need in a positive role model. Take Olympic cyclist Emma Pooley for example, did you know she went to Cambridge? That’s she’s studying for a PhD in Geotechnical Engineering in Zurich? Or that swimmer Gemma Spofforth is studying to be a children's counsellor and is also in training for climbing Everest?

And these female athletes are coming forward to say their bit for feminism. British weightlifter Zoe Smith gave the Youtube trolls a tongue lashing about their embarrassingly predictable digs about the teams’ physiques, whilst silver medalist Lizzie Armistead accompanied her triumphant speech with a call to end sexism in sport and in cycling in particular. Our first British gold was won by our female rowers; the GB women’s football team have yet to concede a goal and we’re not even half way through. For the first time ever it feels that women are as relevant as men in a major sporting event, even if on paper (and by that I mean money, exposure and interest) we still have a long way to go.

I’m hoping that the 2012 Olympics will show up in the history books as a bit of a triumph for women, and if I’m being pathetically optimistic (the games seem to have had that effect on me) I hope that these great women will stick around. It would be fantastic if the pages of women’s mags were filled with red circles highlighting hard-worked abs and cycle-honed legs rather than bad boobs and botched botox. Instead of tragic stories of failed romances and vodka binges, we heard the inspiring stories behind these athletes’ successes. And despite all this, I maintain there is nothing wrong with a bit of admiring perving as well. Now back to my sofa nest and the 200m breaststroke.