What's the Commonwealth, dad? It serves me right for being so prolific, but every time the Commonwealth Games come around, there seems to be a small person at home seeking enlightenment, and still young and naive enough to believe it might come from the paterfamilias. It is not something they teach in school, you see, not to five-year-olds. In fact, in between Commonwealth Games, does anybody ever talk of the Commonwealth at all?

So I attempt a little light explanation, which gives me a chance to cover the meaning of the word "moribund" at the same time. I tell her about the Empire and its iniquities - while she tries to find a matching pair of shoes for her Barbie - and how that has ended, so now we have this loose grouping of nations, which means nothing economically or politically but is a bit like Friends Reunited. Every few years, there is an exchange of emails, and before they remember that we were the school bully, the reunion is arranged; and these days, I shout after her as she runs out to fetch the half a banana she suddenly remembers she has left in the kitchen, you have to call it Mumbai.

It is easy, of course, to mock the Commonwealth Games, and thank goodness for that, because some weeks this column can be a real pig to write. But let us first accentuate the positive. The games are lovely for the athletes, who get a shot at international competition of sorts, and for the Queen, who gets to spend time among people who still take the Royal Family seriously - not the Australians obviously, but the small gathering that came over from St Kitts and Nevis and the carload from Guernsey who seemed thrilled to see their monarch.

For her, it must have been like being in a Pathé news clip from the 1950s, and as Bob Danvers-Walker (ask your dad) is no longer around to report this joyous gathering of nations, I am happy to grant the Commonwealth Games - or sports day, as the cherishable comedian Bob Mills dubbed it - the oxygen of publicity it has been so cruelly denied this week.

Judging by column inches alone, you would get the impression that enthusiasm for the games here is about as strong as enthusiasm for the Commonwealth; although the games did have the misfortune to be fighting for space with the Cheltenham Festival, two FA Cup replays, and a North American black vulture escaping from Tropical Wings World of Wildlife in South Woodham Ferrers.

Thank goodness for the BBC, then, who did find time for the odd 7½ hours' coverage each day, including a hilarious opening ceremony that scored high on the Freedonia scale. (For readers unfamiliar with the Marx Brothers' classic Duck Soup, Freedonia was Groucho's fictional kingdom, high on pointless dressing up and ludicrous ceremonials, low on good sense, against which Screen Break now judges all opening ceremonies.)

For connoisseurs of these events - that's Bazza Davies and me basically - this one was a pip. I mean, animated fish sculptures representing the nations of the Commonwealth? England, if you are interested, was a roach, Wales a carp, Northern Ireland the northern pike, and Scotland a fish supper and a wee pint of heavy. Oh, all right, brown trout, but had the organisers gone my route, it might have come closer to the "Aussie humour and candour" Bazza promised.

Then our gaze was directed skyward, as a winged tram descended into the Melbourne Cricket Ground symbolising, er, something. Bazza, fortunately, was on hand with the information that it was a No36, a W-class tram introduced in 1923, although this particular vehicle, he told us reaching into his anorak pocket for his notebook, first went into service in 1938. Sometimes I think he just goes on like this for me.

At some point in planning this pageantry, someone must have said "I suppose a duck's out of the question" and lo and behold one appeared in the stadium. "With a bit of luck a duck will come into your life," quoted Barry from the Aussie artist and poet Michael Leunig (if you are really lucky, there will be hoi sin sauce and some pancakes as well). "When you are at the peak of your powers, and your achievement towers like a smoking chimney stack, there will be a quack and right there at your feet a little duck will stand."

Well anyway, the role of this duck was to lead a boy into wisdom, joy and innocence. There was something about "a passing flock of large birds having a disturbing effect on the duck", which then underwent "a magical transformation into a fantastical winged woman", like on the gatefold sleeve of a 70s prog rock album.

This was just the start. There were giant koalas, a boy on a skateboard trapped atop a tower representing the Melbourne arts centre, the Australian Ballet Company, heavenly choruses, a spiral pathway of stairs, and finally the teams, including the Jersey mob in white straw boaters and red blazers looking like extras from The Prisoner (ask your dad again). And then Kiri Te Kanawa singing Happy Birthday to the Queen, although it is not her birthday for another 37 days. And that, dear, is what the Commonwealth is all about.