All too much to Blair

Besides which, there are legitimate questions over Mrs Blair's suitability for the job. For all her intelligence and legal acumen, her powers of judgement are - rather worryingly for someone who is, in fact, a judge - open to doubt. She entrusted her property negotiations in Bristol to Peter Foster, a convicted fraudster and, it appears, allowed her involvement with Foster to be described inaccurately by Downing Street press officers.

Her closest personal adviser, Fiona Millar, has announced that she plans to leave her post, amidst persistent rumours that she has become disenchanted with Mrs Blair's reliance upon her New Age "style guru", Carole Caplin. This isn't the best back-drop for someone wishing to take charge of a multi-billion-pound project, with Britain's reputation and London's regeneration at stake.

Even worse, recent trips abroad by Mrs Blair have provoked ridicule and criticism in the media. There have been allegations - denied by Mrs Blair, who is taking legal action - that she has been over-eager to accept cut-price airfares and accommodation, as well as gifts.

The accusations levelled against Mrs Blair may be unfair, but her enemies will ensure that they don't go away, and that more slurs are piled upon them. That is the last thing an Olympic bid needs and that's why Mrs Blair is the last person to run it.

Still, there is one sadness to her (surely) inevitable rejection. If Cherie were to lead London's Olympic bid, she would have to do it hand in hand with her husband's bitter enemy, Ken Livingstone.

The two of them would be obliged to go arm-in-arm to the IOC, schmoozing and sweet-talking. They'd pretend to be New Best Friends while dripping venom from every pore. And that would be more entertaining than any mere Olympics could be.

Players suffer enough

If Henry Olonga, a man who sacrificed his cricket career and risked his life to protest against Robert Mugabe, believes that it is acceptable for Zimbabwe's cricket tour to go ahead, and feels happy to commentate upon it himself, who are we to argue? Zimbabwe's cricketers are not like South Africa's apartheid-era cricketers and rugby-players. They are not representatives of the race and creed that is denying rights to others.

On the contrary, they are victims of dictatorship themselves. Team captain Heath Streak's family were ordered off their farm by Mugabe's thugs, and his father was arrested for refusing to abandon his property.

No wonder Streak's eyes looked so haunted during that Durham Test. No wonder he never cracked a smile, even when Zimbabwe were taking wickets.

This column was among the very first to highlight the obscenity of playing World Cup ties amidst the oppression and starvation of Zimbabwe.

But for all that, I believe that the cricketers, black and white, now burdened with representing that benighted nation deserve our sympathy and support, not our condemnation.

Manner of Justine's win speaks volumes

Three cheers for Justine Henin-Hardenne's victory in the French Open tennis. She gave trivia fans another famous Belgian for their lists (and unlike Tintin and Hercule Poirot, Justine actually exists).

She made a change from another Williams sisters win but, best of all, she kept her trap shut.

As a founder-member of the Campaign for Grunt-Free Tennis, I thoroughly enjoyed the women's final. Both women gasped at moments of genuine exertion, cheered success and berated themselves for failure. But neither Justine nor beaten finalist Kim Clijsters felt the need for those high-volume shrieks, halfway between an orgasmic moan and a constipated yelp, which so many players, male and female, emit every time they hit the ball.

Justine did not grunt. Yet she still won. There's a moral in that for us all.

Three cheers for the rough, tough Eton boys

The staff of the Evening Standard sports desk are charming, salt-of-the-earth folk. They always brighten up my day with their cheery cries of "Gorblimey" and "Gawd bless yer guv" as I tip them a bob or two for taking my top hat and cane.

But, like many "working" people, they suffer from the delusion that posh folk are somehow "soft". Faced with this picture of Prince Harry, playing Eton's traditional Field Game, many Standardites expressed the view that he wouldn't last five minutes in a proper football match against urban proletarians.

Oh yeah? If toffs are so soft, how come they've ruthlessly maintained their wealth and power for the past 1,000 years?

Harry has been forced to live away from home since early childhood. He has had a highly-disciplined schooling, has played some form of sport every single day and has probably done military training in the Eton Corps. He has also had to walk behind his mother's coffin, with the eyes of the world upon him. How soft is that?

Compare Harry to that other boy-prince, Wayne Rooney. He's a son of Croxteth, as "hard" as they come. So put him and Harry into, say, Royal Marines basic training with screaming Sergeant Majors and I absolutely guarantee that Wayne would crack first.