Anti-cynic

I've had to take a bit of a break from blogging for a variety of reasons, both good and bad - though not irrelevant among them being the amount of time I've been spending watching the Olympics. Which has been a bit of a surprise, as despite my best efforts I was unable to get any warmer than 'mild to moderate cynicism' in the build-up to the games. When the Olympic torch rolled past the end of my road three weeks ago, I hurried off in the opposite direction, not wanting to be part of a crowd which seemed content to stand and applaud a procession of Coca-Cola trucks and clamour for McDonalds baseball caps. It was hard to see any further than the revolting commercial dominance at that point (and also, it WAS raining really hard that day), so any notions of athletic achievement and mass human bonhomie seemed a watery, distant dream.

 Even on the night of the opening ceremony, I sat down to watch it as did many of my friends, with my face set to 'smirk' and a headful of plans for how I would resume my evening after twenty minutes, having been bored to tears by some terrible hybrid of 'It's a Knockout' and the Last Night of the Proms. And yet there I was at 1am, off to bed with a silly grin on my face and feeling vaguely apologetic for having slagged Danny Boyle's films off in the past (though I maintain that Slumdog Millionaire WAS a pile of emotionally manipulative crap.). Sure, the 'yoof' section was five minutes too long and the multiculturalism was overstated, the bucolic idyll on fields of butcher's grass was kitch beyond the point of decency and Macca's embarrassing rendition of that dreary dirge 'Hey Jude' was just horrible, but in among it all was Isombard Kingdom Brunel (who apparently confused a few Yanks who couldn't understand why 'Abe Lincoln' was being featured), the Brookside lesbian kiss (censor THAT, Saudi!), younger women who impressed without being sexualised, older women who impressed without being ridiculed, the intro to 'Tiger Feet', a collective finger to the Government for their treatment of the NHS, Bowie's 'Heroes' and best of all, Bradley Wiggins as (in his own Tweeted words) "Bell Boy!BELL BOY!" (by the way, this will be my last mention of Bradley as he now belongs to the world, which I think you'll agree is gracious of me. As I said to a chum, it's a bit like when Elbow became huge after I'd been going to see them in tiny venues for years. Not mine any more!).

 There are still cynics remaining, who've maintained their stance and conspicuously refuse to have "anything to do with the Olympics", but they're looking increasingly daft, particularly after this weekend when you would have had to be made of balsa wood not to feel a rush of happiness for Jessica Ennis or  Mo Farah in their respective triumphs. McDonalds, Coca Cola and David Cameron have faded into the background for now and it really does feel like it's all about the sport and all about the occasion, though of course in a week or so life will have returned to normal and we'll have to listen to the politicians all creep forward again, to claim credit for things that were not of their making. But for now I'll stick with the romance, and the experience I had on Friday afternoon of walking through a London West End where people were smiling WAY more than usual, engaging with one another, and sharing the experience through a thousand big screens in parks and pubs all over the city (a special mention at this point to the two women sharing a particular strand of Olympic bonhomie by engaging in vigorous sex in the toilet cubicle next to me in Pimlico. A gold medal for audacity, especially as it was only 6.30 in the evening.).

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