EXITS as much as excellence have provided the nation's water-coolers with more topics than to be found in the bargain box of an old-curiosity sweet-shop. And if you can't remember that topic just think of the song 'what's got a hazelnut in every bite'?

Anyway, enough of that sugar-toothed digression, let us return to the departure lounge and especially that of the 24th Olympiad, where bowing out was an unfortunate theme.

Topping the exit toll was none other than 'our Paula' as Paula Radcliffe has become.

Such has been her transformation from gallant loser (traditional Brit) to rampant victor (a rare Brit) the leggy, long-distance phenomenon has been clutched to the bosom of the sporting nation in the forgive-all manner of the likes of Henry Cooper, Mary Peters and Frank Bruno.

She arrived in Greece to tackle the marathon with the expectation of Britain draped heavy around her slender shoulders.

So many of her more recent successes gave the impression that the banner she sported was as light as gossamer. By the 36th-kilometre mark of the marathon over the agonising Athens course, it was more a granite-lined Union flag.

There can hardly have been more acute moments of sporting depression as Radcliffe's metronomic running creaked, clanked and collapsed by the roadside, her slight frame hulking under the knowledge that her Olympic dream was over. As the stinging tears fell as she slumped down on to a dusty kerbside, viewer became voyeur intruding on near-grief, yet morbidly so absorbed in the unfolding drama it was hard not to turn eyes away from the screen.

Radcliffe's demise was as shocking as it was unexpected, she being of the 'never-quit' school. Since then though the country has been treated to a hands-wringing tear-fest in which Radcliffe has virtually been publicly flogging herself. All that's been missing is sackcloth and ashes.

But listen love, you don't have to apologise for anything. Your attempt at the Olympics' most gruelling running distance failed, simple as that. Don't beat yourself up for it. It was others who placed upon you the public gold-medallist number one poster.

What you have achieved before that has been miraculous. Not only did you wrought a personal about-turn from bridesmaid to main attraction, you restored pride to British athletics and did so without the aid of chemical stimulants.

The same respect and admiration should be accorded to Denise Lewis, whose reign as Olympic heptathlon champion ended prematurely with the superstar bowing out of the Greek gathering before the two final events of a discipline that demands so much.

Some observers chided her for not staying to the bitter end. But if, as Lewis herself sighed that 'all hope had gone', why prolong the agony.

She was the champion after all and if she did not want her defeat to be dissected in front of millions then she had earned the right so to do.

The respective setbacks for Radcliffe and Lewis should never be allowed to tarnish what they have brought to a sport, the mastery of which is increasingly slipping from Britain's grasp. Each have done it at the highest level, each have bested their peers with dignity, diligence, drive and daring.

Yes, their defeats were hard to bear, but that's all they were - defeats. No-one was maimed, no-one died.

There was, however, a killer blow administered to the reputation of football as both Radcliffe and Lewis bade farewell to their Olympic dream.

Barely had he warmed the managerial hot-seat of St Mary's Stadium, then manager Paul Sturrock was on his way out of Southampton. Two games into the Premiership season, the second a storming win, and Sturrock was out.

The Saints should be heartily ashamed of illuminating the exit sign.

Updated: 09:12 Tuesday, August 24, 2004