Ultimately, it comes down to a simple choice: who do you want to be, and what do you want to represent?
Do you want to be branded as untrustworthy, someone who betrays basic values at the first glint of silver?
Or do you want to challenge life’s imperfections, stand for something more than deceit, greed and elegantly disguised desperation?
Don’t look now, but spin doctors and charlatans are taking liberties with your reputation.
You are about to be found guilty by association with those fighting over the Olympic Stadium like mangy strays, rummaging through a discarded chicken dinner.
The contest is portrayed as a London derby between Tottenham and West Ham, who have a pickpocket’s eye for the main chance.
But it’s more than that.
It is about whether we believe in the concept of fair play, and fulfilling promises.
It’s about how we, as a nation, are viewed by the world.
As liars, or leaders.
The Olympics are compelling, because they enshrine sport’s capacity to reveal the best, and worst, of human nature.
Watching a Steve Redgrave plough his way through pre-dawn training or a Chris Hoy riding a stationary bike to the edge of consciousness in a physiological test is uniquely inspirational.
These are the role models we, as taxpayers, had no option but to buy into when bureaucrats allocated £9.3billion to the 2012 Games.
It’s not their fault the Games are underpinned by the falsehood that they will galvanise the apathetic and shame the overweight.
Mass participation in sport is guaranteed by good people at grassroots level, rather than political investment in a 17-day corporate bunfight, beamed to billions of couch potatoes.
Those people, the little people, need a platform.
They need a true Community Stadium to rally around.
They need the original promise of a 25,000 seater venue dedicated to athletics and the next generation to be kept.
Tottenham’s intention to raize and rebuild is naked opportunism, a demonstration of football’s noxious arrogance.
Getting Pele to prostitute his legend was PR poison.
Spurs chairman Daniel Levy is a notorious negotiator, who would haggle over a penny with a schoolboy selling a half-sucked gobstopper.
West Ham are claiming the moral high ground, which must be a new experience for their owners, who cannot be trusted to run a whelk stall.
There is a third way.
Protect athletics, and invite Leyton Orient to become the tenants. Challenge the entrepreneurial instincts of their owner, Barry Hearn.
He specialises in hopeless cases.
He’s taken darts from a nicotine-stained bar to a Palace and made fat men feel good about themselves.
He’s in the process of reviving snooker, a parlour game whose only identifiable personality is a manic depressive.
He doesn’t lack ambition, or imagination. He even tried to convince us that angling was sexy.
Securing his club’s future, and making principles pay could just be his life’s work. He wouldn’t mind having his ego stroked. He’d relish his inevitable portrayal as sport’s answer to Richard Branson.
The attack dogs would be unleashed, during the six weeks or so it would take the government to confirm its preferred bidder, but that should be no problem
Look behind Hearn’s burnished smile and remember he pitted his wits against Don King, the Lucifer of boxing.
He’d see the advantages in offering to share the stadium with Dagenham & Redbridge, a similarly impoverished club with a great community spirit.
The alternative is accepting our word is not our bond, falling for the half-truths and innuendos of the spin cycle.
Allow Spurs or West Ham to hijack the Olympics?
Not in my name.
More importantly, not in yours