I’d also like to see the 100-metre dash with a finishing line right next to a cliff. You’d have to run enormously fast, but also know exactly when to put on the brakes. There’d be mattresses at the bottom of the cliff (I’m not a monster), but also the thrill of seeing a real-life version of that cartoon involving Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote. For how long would the competitors’ legs continue to pedal in midair before they start plummeting?

Obviously, soccer would be improved if more encouragement were given to those players who pretend injuries to win free kicks. For some reason, the habit is frowned upon. Instead, I’d have a panel of theatre critics awarding points. “Bravo,” they might conclude after one particularly histrionic display. “It was as good as the death scene from Camille. Give that player an award.”

The weightlifting competition is fine, but it lacks a relatable edge. Few of us do battle with weights in the gym, yet so many of us struggle with heavy weights elsewhere. I’d like to see competitors pick up a bag of cement from Bunnings, while also carrying a toddler, a nail gun and a packet of that stuff they reckon reduces moisture in your cupboard. Throw in a pot plant for mum’s birthday, balanced somehow on your forearm, and it’s “Gold, gold, gold to Bulgaria!”

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Sometimes it’s a matter of updating the competition to acknowledge modern sensibilities. The pole vaulters should be required to take a selfie at the point they reach the highest point in their trajectory. Extra points if they manage to post the resulting shot to Instagram, complete with a humblebrag caption, before hitting the ground.

Similarly, before being allowed to compete, the skateboarders should be forced to conduct a long campaign against the local council just to have somewhere to train. Various ancient mayors will be on hand to declare “a local skate park will just bring hoons and hooligans to Wongerbuggaba and I’m not going to stand for it.”

Table tennis should be renamed ping-pong and be staged in a suburban garage, with players having to step around the chest-freezer, dad’s golf clubs and the Victa mower. A sullen 12-year-old would be stationed to one side, complaining about not being given a turn.

Cricket would be included, but in the backyard Australian version. The wickets will be a wheelie bin, and any player over 70 will be eligible for the assistance of a runner, sourced from younger members of the group, thus combining speed with wisdom. Extra points would be given if you caught the ball one-handed and had a glass of chardonnay in your spare hand, or if the dog helped in the ball’s recovery.

The city of Paris, in other words, is doing a great job. Not quite Sydney 2000, but damn fine. All they need is a few additions, as suggested above, plus some live audio of the competitors exercising their right to pee freely into the River Seine.

It’s only a wee proposal, of course, but finally the ‘p’ would not be silent. As in the word “Paris”.