In exactly nine weeks from today, David Beckham (and probably John Terry) will attempt to light the flame in London's Olympic Stadium, marking the beginning of the 2012 Summer Games.
However, hopefully Sir Steve Redgrave - who actually has a connection to the Olympics - will beat both of them to it, thereby bringing a bit of dignity and class to proceedings.
Either way, seven days after that, Wee John, Vanessa, Jamie and I will be sitting beside a big lake at Eton Dorney waiting to cheer Coleraine rower and all-round good guy Alan Campbell to victory in the men's single sculls.
Yes, our Olympic tickets have arrived.
And despite my misgivings about Beckham's crude (but almost certainly successful) attempts to muscle his way into the Great Britain and Northern Ireland Olympic football team, I have nonetheless relinquished some of my principles by buying tickets for their first game at Old Trafford.
Am I excited? Hell yes.
Am I over-excited? Sadly so.
But I do feel very privileged to have the opportunity to taste a little bit of history at first hand. And then bore the bejesus out of countless people for many years afterwards by talking about it.
If you happen to become one of those unfortunates, let me apologise in advance right now.
Did I tell you I was excited?
