Jonny McCambridge: Malinin and Klaebo - bitten by the quadrennial bug of Winter Olympics fever

I'm not sure of the specifics, but I imagine it probably features a gruff, veteran detective who is haunted by the memory of that one case he just couldn't crack.

It's usually something like that.

Suddenly, I move quickly from the sofa, causing my wife to jump.

"Pause it!” I announce with unnecessary urgency. “The men's figure skating final is coming on!!

I can't see her behind me, but I imagine she rolls her eyes, being well used to my eccentricities.

She switches the TV to the BBC as I begin to give my expert analysis, particularly my appraisal of the red-hot favourite for gold, US skater Ilia Malinin.

I assure my doubtful wife that she is about to "experience history". I tell her about Malinin, how he is known for his prolific jumping ability, about how he is going to complete an unprecedented seven quads, how he will perform the first quad Axel in Olympics history and how he will also do a back somersault "just for fun" because it is not a required element.

"They might as well give him the gold medal now," I announce smugly.

What I do not say is that, until the last few days, I had never even heard of Ilia Malinin.

If my wife was to ask me to explain the different between an Axel, a Salchow or a toe-loop, I would be floundering.

None of that matters, I've spent most of today reading about the feats and accomplishments of Malinin.

We watch a few of the other skaters. My wife comments that some of them seem to be quite good, but I shake my head and tell her she hasn't seen anything yet.

She says that the Kazakhstani skater Shaidorov did very well. I smile knowingly at the naivety of her remarks.

Then Malinin appears, moving across the ice confidently.

Stirring music commences and his programme is underway. I encourage my wife, who has now become distracted by social media to "watch this".

Malinin doesn't do the quad Axel. I know this because the commentator, Robin Cousins, tells me.

In fact, he doesn't complete a number of his jumps. Halfway through, he falls to the ice. Close to the conclusion, he falls again.

The skater is almost in tears as he leaves the rink. When the scores come in, he has finished eighth. The skater from Kazakhstan wins the gold medal.

My wife looks at me quizzically.

"It just goes to show,” I stutter unconvincingly. “You never quite know what's going to happen.”

It is difficult to explain the madness that overcomes me when a major event, such as the Winter Olympics, occurs.

I allow myself to become consumed by the competition, insisting on educating myself about every element of what is taking place.

So determined is my devotion, that I begin the fear how empty life will be when there is no Olympics on.

But it is slightly more complicated.

A check through my files shows me that four years ago I wrote a piece on this page about how much I loved curling.

So deep was my fascination, that I made inquiries about whether there was a rink where I could try the game myself.

But in the four years since, I'm not sure that a single curling-related thought has passed through my head.

When this year's competition began, I had to spend a couple of days reacquainting myself with the rules like a novice.

Now, once again, I am a self-confessed expert. I followed the rollercoaster journeys of the mixed, women's and men's teams on their medal hunts.

I annoyed my wife over and over by watching the game on my phone while she was trying to read.

I would quietly mumble "line's good...line's good” as the curling stone inched its way down the ice before startling her by yelling “Hard! Hard! Curl! Curl!” as I exhorted the sweepers towards greater efforts.

By next week, I presume my temporary dose of winter sports fever will have passed.

It is Saturday morning and I have got up early to watch the 50km men's cross-country skiing.

There is a particular angle to my interest in this race.

The great Norwegian skier Johannes Hoesflot Klaebo is attempting to complete the unprecedented feat of winning six gold medals at a single winter games.

I love this sort of trivia.

It reminds me of watching, as a youth, Carl Lewis attempting in the summer games in 1984 to replicate the four gold-medal feat of Jessie Owens from 1936, or the superhuman swimming endeavours of Michael Phelps.

I have become fascinated by Klaebo and have tried to watch as many of his races as time allows.

The problem is that I want someone to share my obsession, and I've yet to come across another person who is aware of the history which is unfolding or, indeed, has even heard of him.

The race winds its long and agonising path. Klaebo and one other competitor are locked in a dual for the gold as it enters the final stages. I am unable to sit still and need an outlet for my excitement.

My wife has already warned me about waking anyone up by shouting so I resort to WhatsApp. I begin to send a series of messages to multiple group conversations.

"Klaebo in the gold hunt!”

“Last km! Klaebo goes for it up the hill!”

“I can't believe what I'm seeing, he's a machine!”

“It's gold! Gold for Klaebo!”

“History has been made!”

I am so animated that I am unable to sit down. I see that several people have read my messages, but there are no responses.

I consider the possibility that others are so overcome with excitement that they cannot type. I try one last tactic.

"Is anyone watching this?”

My brother responds promptly and curtly.

“No.”