SOMETHING utterly jaw-dropping has happened at these Games, and it has nothing to do with a tall man with the weight a nation on his shoulders stumbling before the first hurdle.
The Brits have overtaken Australia on the medals table. This darkness has descended, and yet there has been no declaration of national emergency.
Once, not so long ago, Australians were a proud people who walked tall with jutted jaws. The Poms were a source of amusement, a fallen imperial master weeping over a dog-eared scrapbook, its tattered images of Steve Redgrave, Seb Coe, Mary Rand and those blokes from Chariots Of Fire fading by the day.
As much as it hurt, you'd hear them say: "Why can't we be good at sport, like you Aussies?"
Triumphal, you'd smile, pat their bowed heads, and offer an almost heartfelt, "There, there, at least you've got Amy Winehouse."