Posted on Tuesday, 26 September 2000

Disclaimer: As usual, all the Austen characters are borrowed from the gracious lady. All Olympians - particularly Pieter van den Hoogenband, Lenny Krayzelberg, Steven Redgrave, Michael Klim, Masimiliano Rosolino, Alex Popov, Alexi Nemov, Vitaly Scherbo and Ian Thorpe - are adopted with much affection. And the opinions are generally my own.

The Start

Fitzwilliam Darcy called out to his wife, who was watching television.

"Elizabeth, I thought we might make a reservation at that new restaurant for this evening. What do you think?"

His wife didn't take her eyes from the screen. "No thank you dear, I've already got plans for the evening."

Her husband looked confused. "What? You didn't say anything!"

She frowned. "Didn't I tell you, William? I've got a date with Pieter."

Darcy looked shocked. "A date? But...but...aren't we married? I thought we were happy!"

Lizzie nodded, still not looking away from the television. "Oh, we are. I love you dearly. But I've been waiting for my moment with Pieter for four years. I can't just let it slip."

Fitzwilliam Darcy took a deep breath. "OK darling, perhaps we could go out to lunch tomorrow instead?"

She shook her head. "No can do, I'm afraid. I want to see Steve then."

Darcy couldn't believe his ears. "Steve? Who's Steve when he's at home?"

"Steve's Steve! And he's been waiting for this one for twenty years, so I can't really turn him down."

Her husband swayed slightly on his feet. He tried to pull himself together, but failed dismally. Eventually, he gave up. "Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth, would you mind very much if I went down to the pub?"

His wife waved him out the door. "Not a problem! I'm quite happy here with Pieter. And Lenny might drop by for some entertainment too. He's never been backward about coming forward."

Her despairing husband bolted.

The Turn

Fitzwilliam Darcy was nursing his third pint down at the pub when someone tapped him on the shoulder. His friend Charles Bingley seemed somewhat tipsy, but his concern was apparent.

"I say, Darce, what are you doing drinking alone? I thought you'd be at home with your wife!"

Darcy buried his head in his hands. "I would have been, but she doesn't seem to want me. She's too busy with Pieter, And Gary. And someone named Steve, who's apparently been after it for twenty years!"

His friend nodded in sympathy. "I know what you mean."

Darcy looked up curiously. "You do? I thought you were all for domestic bliss."

Bingley sighed. "I thought I was. But I seem to have the same problem as you. Jane's enamoured of someone named Michael. She keeps asking me to shave my head! I had to get out of the house, because I simply don't understand!"

"N.n.n.nor do I!" stuttered a third man. Darcy and Bingley looked at him in surprise.

"Not you too, Edward? I couldn't imagine Elinor doing anything that silly!"

A dejected Edward Ferrars nodded. "I d.d.don't know what to do. I love her so much, but all she can talk about is Masimiliano! At first I thought she was just interested in Italian culture but now...I'm not so sure. I think it's serious. And she was talking about someone named Alex, too. I'm s.s.so worried!" He began to sniffle, and the barman offered him a handkerchief.

The three men looked at one another. What on earth was going on?

Bingley suddenly caught sight of two men hidden in the corner, apparently deep in conversation.

"I say, isn't that Brandon and Knightly in the corner?"

Edward jumped. "N.n.o. This can't be happening. Not to those two. I'd stake my life on it!"

Darcy remarked dryly, "Well, I hope you've got a sharp knife handy."

Charles Bingley intervened as the discussion became a trifle heated. "Why don't we go and talk to them?"

The trio made their way nervously over to the corner table.

The Finish

Christopher Brandon paused in mid-sentence when he saw his woebegone friends approaching. He stood, and ordered another round of drinks while everyone settled themselves. George Knightly remained silent, nodding a greeting from where he sat.

Brandon looked anxious. "What's up? What brings you here?"

All the newcomers spoke at once.

"Pieter."
"Michael."
"Steven."
"Masimiliano."
"Alex."
"Lenny."

Knightly smiled wryly. "And I'm here because of Alexi."
Brandon grimaced. "I've got Ian problems. But Marianne always did like younger men."

Fitzwilliam Darcy looked aghast. "What's happening? Who are all these people? Why are our wives deserting us?"

George Knightly glanced at Christopher Brandon, who nodded. Knightly began to explain.

"Just as I suspected. It's an infrequent but common ailment, known as Amor Olympia. There are two main strains, Frigidus and Humidus. I expected the Humidus form to strike this year, although I must confess, I didn't think it would be so widespread. And the variety of sub-forms has been extraordinary!"

Edward frowned. "I'm.m.m afraid I don't quite understand."

Knightly continued. "In non-medical parlance, our wives are suffering from Olympic Fever. The Summer Games are being held in Sydney at the moment, and the ailment seems to have spread over here. Our wives have fallen for the Olympian charms of the athletes."

It was Bingley's turn to look confused.

"But why?"

Brandon took over the explanation. "Let's look at things on a case by case basis. Now, Charles, what were Jane's symptoms?"

Bingley thought for a moment. "She's always talking about someone named Michael. Yesterday she made an appointment at the hairdresser for me to get my head shaved! And she's developed a sudden passion for butterflies."

Brandon sighed. "That's an easy diagnosis. Klim-itis. You can't compete with that one."

The other man was affronted. "Why not? I'm handsome, charming, cheerful, young, and I've got five thousand a year!"

Brandon shook his head. "But Klim is handsome, young, has broken four world records, has two gold medals and two silvers, and can swim 100m butterfly in under 58 seconds. And he's got a most attractive bald head."

Bingley's shoulders slumped. "I didn't realise things were that bad."

Brandon continued his rounds. "Darcy, how's Elizabeth?"

Darcy spoke tonelessly. "Very sick. She's always talking about Pieter. About how fast he is. About how handsome he is. And then there was Lenny. She kept walking backwards whenever she mentioned him. Not to mention Steve. She positively fawned over Steve."

Brandon's eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry Darcy, that's a very serious case indeed. It sounds like a combination fever. Van den Hoogenband/Krayzelburg/Redgrave Sydney- Syndrome. A multi-national case. They've got multiple Olympics and at least ten gold medals. Your ten thousand pounds a year and Pemberley simply can't match the attraction of the Flying Dutchman, Lethal Lenny and Redgrave the Rower. Forwards, backwards, sculling - you wouldn't be able to keep up. I'm afraid there's nothing you can do, except cheer for someone else. And stay out of the water."

Edward looked desperate. "Can you help me, then? Elinor's always talking about spaghetti and watermelons. Surely that's not so sinister?"

Brandon shook his head slowly. "I don't think I know that one. George?"

His colleague nodded. "It's a bit obscure, but it sounds like the Massi-Popov-virus. Rosolino the Italian with a complete set of medals; Popov the Olympic legend who was stabbed by a watermelon salesman in Moscow. It's a new variant, Edward, but it's still very difficult to treat, especially when Popov persists in swimming in Speedos. I don't think your charms will be enough to counteract it.

The medical fascination inherent in the diagnosis of these unusual condition was not enough to buoy the spirits of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Charles Bingley and Edward Ferrars. Looking utterly dejected, they drained their drinks and wished for oblivion.

"Hmm. Emma's case." Knightly went on. "Nemov-pneumonia. The successor to Vitaly-vapours. A sensitive, thoughtful chap like me can't keep up with an ultra-muscular Russian with eleven Olympic gymnastic medals. I've been going to the gym more, though."

Brandon smiled wanly at that. "Unfortunately, that doesn't really help me. I'm not seventeen with feet that size, so I haven't really got a lot to fight the Thorpedo with. Especially since I don't swim too well."

The five men sat in silence. It was Darcy who eventually spoke, in a soft, heartbroken voice.

"So we've lost our wives, and there's nothing we can do! What a mess!" At this, Edward Ferrars burst into tears, and Charles Bingley's eyes became suspiciously bright."

Brandon and Knightly looked puzzled. "Oh no, didn't we say?"

Darcy glared at his friends. "Didn't say what?"

"Olympic Fever isn't permanent. It only lasts sixteen days. And the disease doesn't do any permanent damage, apart from leaving an interest in swimming, gymnastics and rowing."

Edward Ferrars almost jumped out of his seat. "Yipeeeeeee!"

Brandon stopped his premature celebrations. "Unfortunately, before the fever ends, you've still got to get through the next stage. The Runs. All the athletic events. Those muscular, arrogant creatures who can run the 100m in under ten seconds. The lithe creatures who can leap tall poles with a single bound. That can be terrible to endure."

Bingley nodded. "I see, I see. But you're saying there is some hope?"

Knightly smiled. "Yes. If you're patient, things will get back to normal after medication known as Closing Ceremony The flaming fever should go out then. But it can't be administered until after all the athletes have competed. You'll just have to wait."

A relieved looking Darcy sank back down into his chair. "Well, while we're waiting, why don't we have another beer?"

There was a roar of assent.

George Knightly stood up. "While I'm getting this round, why don't I ask the landlord to turn the television on?" He paused, and then grinned slyly at his comrades. "There's some good Olympic action tonight!"

Their response was underwhelming.