Well, I have attended a total of 16 Summer and Winter Olympics, and the answer does not come easily.

After much memory-searching I have whittled it down to five of the very best: Tokyo 1964, Barcelona 1992, Sydney 2000, Athens 2004 and, of course, London 2012. All Summer Games. More of my less happy Winter experience anon.

They say you always remember your first. Mine was Tokyo, Games that remain etched in the consciousness as the last of the "pure" Olympics, untainted by cheating, terrorism, boycotts, security overkill or rampant commercialism.

And as for drugs, well, stanozolol was just a twinkle in a chemist's test tube.

No-one played politics and, perhaps for the last time, competitors seemed to reflect the Olympic ideal that it is not so much the winning, but the taking part. Baron Pierre de Coubertin was surely smiling down on them benevolently.

I still sometimes hum the catchy jingle that woke us every day: "Good morning, Tokyo, happy to be greeting you". These really were happy Games, especially for Britain, who collected 20 medals overall with long jump golds from both Lynn "The Leap" Davies and the original golden girl, Mary Rand.

After the assorted traumas of the M Games - Mexico City, Munich, and Moscow - Barcelona provided a pleasant change of atmosphere which marked the return of an apartheid-free South Africa and a united Germany.

For ambience and friendliness it was among the best, with true translation of the Olympic ethos and finally a golden Games for Britain. Chris Boardman re-invented the bicycle wheel and Linford Christie, who four years before in Seoul had been lucky to escape a ban after overdosing on ginseng tea, won the 100 metres at 32. Four hundred metres hurdler Sally Gunnell impishly reminded us that "Essex girls do come first".

If Tokyo was the most charming of the dozen Summer Olympics I have covered, then Sydney was simply the most pleasant, from every aspect. Organisation, atmosphere, weather, facilities, and above all the touchy-feely friendliness of the Aussies themselves.

Every Olympic visitor was greeted with a cheery "G’day" and a welcoming arm around the shoulder from volunteers who were genuinely proud to be hosting a family show. Of course, it helped that everyone spoke English but for sheer getting-it-togetherness, Sydney surpassed any previous Games.

The return of the Olympics to their cradle in Athens after 108 years was special. There was a warmth which you only get from familiarity and the Greeks offered traditional hospitality, taking the flame from Sydney with great panache, despite the construction and financial hiccups along the way.

The last lick of paint had barely dried on the refurbished Olympic Stadium before the Games began but in the end they were superbly orchestrated by Gianna Angelopoulos, a millionairess diva of striking beauty and political astuteness, who later became the country's Foreign Minister.

Athens was hot and hectic, but you departed feeling that the Olympic Games had come home, if only briefly, and that this was where they deserved to stay.

And so to London and maybe it's because I am a Londoner that I have to say that they were the best by a sliver thanks to the excellence of Seb Coe and co's master planning.

And so to the worst. And there is only one candidate: Lake Placid 1980. They were my first Winter Games and while I dream of Tokyo, I still have nightmares about these.

From the media perspective Lake Placid was the worst sporting experience I have encountered, surprisingly so as it was in the United States.

Usually, nowhere in the world are major sporting events better orchestrated. From the Superbowl to world title fights, nobody does it better. Except in Lake Placid.

This was small town America at its worst. Head of the Organising Committee was the local vicar, the Rev J Bernard Fell, a parsimonious parson indeed.

The 1980 Games marked the second time the small upstate New York resort had hosted the Winter Olympics. But, in the age of mass TV coverage and increasing numbers of spectators, Lake Placid was ill-equipped to handle the demands of a modern Games.

Transportation was inadequate to move the crowds and the media - the few buses we saw usually whizzed by without stopping, leaving us stranded knee deep in snow often up to 40 below.

Athletes complained about the cramped confinement in rooms measuring some 7ft by 13ft in the Olympic Village, which was designed from the outset to become an actual prison later on, housing notorious Mafia inmates.

The so-called "Olympic Prison" triggered what Sports Illustrated declared "a revolt, unprecedented in Olympic history" as a growing number of visiting Olympic teams refused to be incarcerated at the Village, citing its tiny cells, barred windows and barb-wire perimeter.

While the sports facilities themselves were good, they were spread throughout the area, making it difficult for spectators to view the events. In addition, organisers were forced to use artificial snow - an Olympic first.

Most of the media was housed in an establishment akin to a low grade youth hostel with tiny, often windowless rooms. I recall the late John Hennessy, sports editor on the London Times, crouched in his cell-like accommodation, head in his hands and wailing: "I am here representing one of the most prestigious newspapers in the world. What am I doing in a hell-hole like this?"

The media centre was an ill-equipped boys' schoolhouse in which the toilet cubicles had no doors. Not an ideal way to spend a penny.

The trouble was, the Rev Fell obviously did not want to spend too many of them on the media.

On top of all this my padded ski jacket burst, spraying duck feathers all over the working press room. Henceforth I was dubbed "The Man with the Exploding Jacket". So you can see why I was not a happy bunny. And I was not alone.

International politics also dampened the Games. Only months before, the Soviet Union had invaded Afghanistan, and US President Jimmy Carter was already threatening a boycott of the 1980 Summer Games in Moscow.

To be fair though, the sporting action was memorable. Lake Placid provided stunning victories for the Americans, culminating in the nation's ice hockey team, mainly comprised of college boys, sensationally defeating the mighty Soviet Union, the dominant team in international hockey over the previous decade and Olympic champions since 1964, en-route to winning the gold medal.

One of the most iconic moments in the history of the Winter Olympics, it became known as "The Miracle on Ice".

It also occurred at the height of the Cold War. And for the embarrassingly vanquished Soviet superstars, doubtless it was a case of the Cold Shoulder when they returned home.

Almost overshadowed by the success of the US hockey team was Eric Heiden's record-breaking performance as he swept the speed skating board, becoming the first athlete to win five individual gold medals at a single Olympic Games.

And a bonus for Great Britain was the gold medal won by the sequin-studded Robin Cousins in the men's figure skating, which followed the success of compatriot John Curry in Innsbruck four years earlier.

Now here's a funny thing. Some 20 years later Hollywood made a film entitled Lake Placid. But it had nothing to do with the Olympics.

It was about a monster crocodile emerging from a lake and terrorising the local community.

It was a horror movie of course, not unlike certain aspects of my worst-ever Games themselves.