I mean I must say on the first day of the Olympics I was in
no great mood to change my tune. The first thing I saw was that there was
another godforsaken flotilla involved to promote the Olympics on its first day.
What is it with Londoners and flotillas? And who else even calls it a flotilla?
As poetic as the Thames is, it is hardly a thing of beauty, with that off-putting
greenish hue, and seeing some crumby old boats slip over its scummy depths stirs
as much glee in me as a problematic contraction of gonorrhoea. Still thankfully
this didn’t last long, and as the day dragged on, we got ever closer to the
much hyped opening ceremony. And what a show it was. I was a bit apprehensive
at first. I am a big fan of Danny Boyle but he seemed a strange choice to
handle an event with such gravity as the opening ceremony; it’s the sort of
task that even Emperor Nero would have gotten all flustered over. But Boyle did
such an incredible job. From the VT feeds that brought together the history of
the Thames that opened the event, I knew it would be something special.
The arena floor had been made into an idyllic
rural scene, with cheery village folk swinging ribbons round a pole and skipping
rope and other such lovely things. It looked sort of like The Shire, or, interchangeably,
Lamberhurst (except not everybody at the ceremony was white and old). This gave way to the industrial and
agricultural revolutions, with Kenneth Branagh strutting about in a suit and
top hat, puffing on an unlit cigar (no smoking in a public venue sir, even if
it is open top) with a troupe of blue blood industrialist types following after
him. The grass and wood gave way to chrome and steel, with smoking chimneys
rising out of the stadium floor. This led onto the Suffragettes, along with
references to the world wars (very vague ones mind, we don’t want to make the
German contingent squirm unnecessarily do we). This was followed by
Beatlemania, the industrial north, steel mills, recession, immigration, leading
onto a celebration of British storytelling, music and dance. Boyle also did an
admirable job of glazing over the fairly sizeable period in British history made
up of imperialist warmongering, empire building, greed, and slave trading, which
made up a decent portion of the last two hundred years. Nice one Danny boy.
Speaking of greed and villainy, it was unclear whether Brannagh was meant to be
the baddy of the piece or not. He certainly looked like a dickhead. He kept
pulling on his lapels and smirking knowingly as the various scenes unfolded,
apparently the conniving and calculating visionary mastering the construction
of the industrial age and the birth of consumerism. Yet he never got his comeuppance.
I can’t help but feel that is a rather wry nod to the rich guys who get away
with it, which, as recent years of feckless bankers and cheating politicians have
shown, is no less true now than it was in the age of the top hat and cane. Or
maybe it was just Kenneth Brannagh.
The lights and sound, dancing and singing were just excellent.
Furthermore Boyle’s decisions on the focal points of the ceremony were well
chosen. I thought the ode to the NHS, surely one of the greatest achievements
of the last sixty years, was a smart choice. The interpretive
dance was a bit wild at times, going a bit Lloyd-Webber when it would be better
to stay a bit more Hans Zimmer, but the breakdown and sudden return to silence,
during the piece dedicated to the 7/7 bombings, was actually very tasteful. The people chosen to represent the country were equally appropriate.
Having Mike Oldfield play much of his Tubular
Bells and also Portsmouth, with
him making a live appearance, really added to the night, while having Sir Tim
Berners-Lee, a man so often overlooked despite his enormous contribution to the
human race, along for the proceedings was a masterstroke, and his message, ‘This is for everyone’ projected around
the stadium, was actually quite poignant and moving.
The Queen’s cameo with
Daniel Craig was brilliant, and I was surprised and impressed that Queenie did
the piece in person (not the actual skydiving, although, maybe on a windy day,
that wouldn’t be such a bad idea...). The
parade of nations dragged on, but that’s because there are so many bloody
countries in the games these days, which, surely, is a good thing. Besides it
proved a good time to get a cuppa and take a slash. The presenting of the flags
on the grassy hill proved very effective, though it was a shame there was no
wind, so they all hung flaccid as you like. Musically I don’t think Arctic
Monkeys were a very good choice, their blaring of the frenzied and featureless You Look Good On The Dancefloor seeming
somewhat at odds with the theme of the night, though their ode to the Beatles
with a cover of Come Together was
alright, and you can’t really lose when the doves of peace are riding in luminous
bicycles round the stadium while you play. They could have had my Uncle David
lighting farts and it would still be moving. Or Cheryl Cole. Well, maybe not that last one. Letting Paul
McCartney close was a fairly uninspired choice, but come on, few people
symbolise the British people more than Macca does. And who doesn’t love singing
along to Hey Jude? The firework
display is an opening ceremony standard so was hardly a surprise, but it made
you ohh and ahhh at the appropriate times. I think due to the massive
speculation as to which lucky sole would light the Olympic flame, the fact that
not one, but six people I don’t know lit it was sort of anti-climatic, in the
same way allowing the Chuckle Brothers to light it would have been
anti-climatic. I suppose it is fitting because it was like the old athletes
handing to the new, or something. Either way the actual flame itself, The
Cauldron, was incredible, the way it swung up to unite the urns of each country
was a really creative and heartfelt twist on the standard lighting of the flame
(without any crispy fried doves; always a plus).
So the Games got off to the best possible start, and, I
thought, while the ceremony was great, the games themselves could never
reach the high mark that the ceremony had set. But unbelievably I was wrong. I
found myself day after day popping the TV on and seeing what was going on in
the capital. A large part of the Games appeal for me had to be the BBCs
coverage itself, which, compared to the patchwork efforts of NBC in the states,
was concise and thorough. Gary Lineker and Sue Barker, both household names,
presented with a professional ease that is ideal for a task as mammoth as
presenting the games, and the inclusion of John Inverdale, who I hadn’t seen
present before, was a good choice; he could be succinct, hearty and breezy in
his congratulations and interviews with Team GB, but he also brought a sort of deadpan wit to
proceedings, of the sort sorely missing in sports commentary. A turn from the
ubiquitous Matt Baker helped round off the cast. But this would have been
nothing if it weren’t for the undoubtedly incredible performances by the
members of Team GB. So many heroes have been born from the games, Mo Farrah,
Jessica Ennis, Ben Ainslie, to name really only
a few of the many, many new faces thrust into the Olympic limelight.
Even the made men, such as Bradley Wiggins or Chris Hoy winning their gold
medals was fantastic, and it was especially nice to see Andy Murray win gold,
something that clearly meant a lot to him.
Maybe now he can lighten the hell up. And then there was the maelstrom
of activity, not all of it very savoury, surrounding young diver Tom Daley. I
mean yeah, hubba hubba, Tom Daley is a total dreamboat, not going to question that. But the
scale of Daleymania proved a little troubling to say the least, with everyone
and their dad falling over one another to detail what graphic act they would
unleash upon the poor chap. Olympic ogling is virtually an Olympic sport in
itself but when it verges on obsession it gets a bit much. Still, I don’t think any person in the country
wasn’t a little guilty in the creeping department.
For me, the biggest difference between the Olympic Games and other
national events like say, the Royal Wedding of the Queens Jubilee, was that you
really clicked with the competitors. You really empathised with them as they so
clearly struggled and toiled to compete, and when they won, you couldn’t help
but be happy for them, because unlike some millionaire blue blood, most of Team
GB were just normal people, and seeing them triumph against the best the world
had to offer was genuinely a great feeling. Where the royal festivities
alienated those of us who don’t live in castles, the games actually did bring
people together and we came to see a bit of ourselves in the athletes, who reacted
to their sensational wins with such modesty and humour that you felt glad to
hold them up to the world like that, a feeling some people would describe as
pride in being British. What resulted was one of the best medal hauls in
British memory, with the tiny speck of the British Isles finishing third behind
the super powers of sport, China and the USA. Though you couldn’t help feel the
top two weren’t quite appreciating their success, and there was a definite
political edge to their game which was a bit sour to me. Still, it’s the
Americans. They used to be like that with the USSR, it seems they just need
someone to square up to on an international stage or else it’s just no fun for
them. But as for the Chinese, things were a bit darker. The kind of commitment
to winning gold for them is something akin to the determination of the
imperialist Japanese to protect their emperor from American invasion in 1945.
You can’t help but wonder what grizzly threats were made out to the Chinese team
should they not win a gold. I dare say Li Yangfeng will be shovelling gravel in
some shady work camp for failing to bring a gold back east in the Women’s
discus. Still. With the two week stint of sports and competition over, there
was only time for a final hurrah at the Olympic stadium.
And what a hurrah it was. A retina searing celebration of British music, from One Direction to Ray Davies, from the Spice Girls to Muse and Madness. It was not without a little weirdness; the Pet Shop Boys in black latex KKK ensemble was pretty trippy, as was Timothy Spall standing in a plastic Big Ben, blasting out Shakespeare, but dressed up as Winnie Churchill. Yeah, you know what people say of the eccentricity of the British. Emeli Sande did overstay her welcome a little, and indeed seemed to be a little off key, but Elbow's swelling anthem One Day Like This fit well with the celebratory feel of the event. It was also really good to see Geroge Michael back after his terrible illness, belting out Freedom like it was 1997. The fashion industry got a well deserved nod, though the influence that Tinie Tempah and Taio Cuz have had on music over the past fifty years is, well, debatable. It is the only gig I have ever seen where the crowd response to the legendary Brian Many was matched only by The Spice Girls. Something interesting that happened before the show was even over, was that Elbow, Kate Bush and Emeli Sande, all made appearances in the ITunes Top 20 chart, which was nice to see too.Though admittedly it did start to drag towards the end, and I for one was totally kosher with not having to hear the Greek national anthem, or know anything about the Rio Olympics, or see that many feather girls in one sitting.But beyond the music, it was a pleasant sight seeing so many people enjoying themselves. There is nothing like seeing several hundred athletes losing their shit to We Will Rock You.One noted it felt like it had been 'a friendly Games'; with as much style as there was substance, far removed from the Corporate pomp of the Beijing festivities. London went beyond light and magic. It had heart.
The 2012 Olympics in London was more than a contest, and it
was more than a sports event. It is easy to nitpick. Some say hosting an
Olympic games in such splendour is simply inappropriate in times of such dire
recession. Conceptually the Olympics can be seen as merely celebrating the
exasperation of basic motor functions; a collection of dry and meaningless
little mini-games. Leering old dickhead Morrisey even chimed in saying
that the games were reminiscent of Germany in 1939; what he describes as 'blustering
jingoism'. But this can only be described as a pathetic and rather
mean spirited attempt to stay relevant. In fact, this comes after Moe complained on stage in Manchester that his music wasn’t
included in the opening ceremony. Sounds like someone’s a bit huffy to me.
Admittedly these are not great times for Britain, and yes London as a capital
does seem to drift and drift, financially and socially, from the rest of the
country, which remains severely harassed by tight spending cuts. But the
Olympic Games seemed to bring the whole country together in a way I’ve never
known. The Olympic torch had traced every inch of the country, from the
farthest parameter to the most central of metropolises. It was like the
North/South divide was obliterated, and for a short time, the nation stood as
one, witnessing young British men and women, from London, from Yorkshire, from
Scotland and Hexam, standing up to represent the UK on an international stage.
It was not just London’s games; in a way it belonged to every person from every
corner of the country. Team GB outperformed any expectations, and on other
fronts, men like Michael Phelps, Usain Bolt and David Rudisha cemented
themselves as sporting legends. It was this shared emotion that made the games
what it was. Because it is not, as Morrissey suggests, a celebration of one
country besting its rivals. It is a celebration of unity, from borough to
borough, country to country, hemisphere to hemisphere. It is a celebration of
the quirks and drama of the human condition. It was the Olympic spirit, more
tangible than ever. I enjoyed the Olympics in its entirety. And Christ, I never
thought I'd say that.
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