Note: I wrote this the Tuesday after the Olympics ended (it finished on the Sunday) but then lost it somewhere between my several email addresses. Looking at it I’m not that happy about this blog: it’s overly emotional and suffers as a result. I quickly run out of superlatives and fall back on my sentimentality for the two weeks I’d just had. Yet they were a great two weeks, possibly the happiest of my life. Yeah, I’ve had happier moments, or days but not 16 in a row like that. And I actually felt slightly - ridiculously - bereaved at the end of them. Because I’m like that. Anyway, remember that if you choose to read on...
I had two hangovers on Monday.
The first, physical and caused by the usual means, was almost welcome. I knew how to cure that one – an early night and plenty of liquids – and in a strange way its existence distracted me from the more painful second hangover.
I remember the day London won the right to host the Olympics. It was the 6th July 2005 and I was sat at work listening to the decision on my DAB radio. Oddly, it being over 7 years ago, I still remember my heart racing and the excitement I felt when the result was announced. I even had a little private dance in the disabled toilet afterwards.
That evening I went to the gym, eschewed the running machine and sat on the bike, solely because I wanted to watch the footage of the Olympic decision on the screens they have on each piece of equipment. I felt really happy and excited.
I’ve forgotten much of what has happened to me in the intervening 7 years. But not that.
I also remember Los Angeles 84, following Daley Thompson in the decathlon, the controversy over Zola Budd and recording every British medal in a scrapbook. For Seoul 88 I made two compilation videos of highlights, and when 95% of all my videos were packed off to the charity shop earlier this year, this one was kept. Any memories I have of 1992 are tied to that year’s Olympics, following them when I was meant to be on holiday in London. Then the late nights and disappointments of Atlanta 96, the two weeks off work to watch Sydney and what felt like the renaissance of British Olympic sport. After that, Kelly Holmes, the sprint relay heroes of 2004 and the happy week I spent watching action from Beijing throughout the night.
These are things that have stayed in my mind while more important information has been lost. I can name all 5 winners of British gold medals at Barcelona 92, yet I struggle to recall my own mobile number.
For someone who grew up loving sport it’s not hard to believe that I’d love the Olympic Games. It is after all 16 days packed with more sport than it’s possible to watch. But, whereas I’ve always looked forward to football World Cups, athletics world championships or The Ashes, there is something about the Olympics that stood above them all in my memory. And here in 2012 it was happening in my own country.
As soon as the Olympic flame was lit in Greece my excitement reached levels that I personally thought ridiculous. As a child I’d always loved Christmas, often winding myself up so much over it that I’d have a minor blowout just before New Year, and this felt like a version of that but lasting for months. The flame arrived in Britain, passed through Preston and Fleetwood….dates passed, one month to go, two weeks to go, week to go…
And then it happened. And now I have this hangover.
It isn’t going away.
Starting with the opening ceremony, a fun, poignant, brilliant evocation of what Britain was in the past and what made it the country it is today. I’ll never forget squealing in delight at seeing mention of the film Kes (I was sozzled), the euphoria I felt when Team GB marched out to Heroes by David Bowie, and the sight of Doreen Lawrence and Shami Chakrabarti carrying the Olympic flag. It was this ceremony and that moment in particular when I stopped worrying about whether we’d deliver, or rather be allowed to deliver a great games. I had no doubt we’d organise it properly and get the tone about right yet I thought there were enough people here and maybe elsewhere who’d delight in Britain fucking it up. Certain parts of the media eagerly looked forward to another example of ‘Broken Britain’, anticipated empty venues, sporting failure and embarrassing cock-ups. But after Danny Boyle’s ceremony and the choice of people involved at every stage I knew we’d be okay, that this would be nothing like the mess of Atlanta 1996, and even though we’d not match Beijing for sheer spectacle, we’d look for a joy sometimes lacking in that games.
The opening ceremony was pitched perfectly, just thinking about it now I can recall several moments that either drove me to tears or made my skin tingle. The aforementioned Olympic flag unveiling was one of these, but if I had to choose a single moment in my life when I felt the most pride at being British it was when the images of volunteers dressed as WW1 soldiers overlayed with shots of poppies, all with Underworld’s marvellous score underneath it all. This was broadcast to 1 billion people, a call out to people who had made the ultimate sacrifice in our past, and led to the world that we live in today. It was immensely touching, and just like the rest of the ceremony judged the mood correctly. We made something British, unafraid to show aspects of life that were only British (the NHS, Kes, Gregory’s Girl), yet not feel ashamed of who we were. Our values - my values - were being put upon the screen for the whole world to see. I ended the evening drunk, shouting along to a song by the greatest band there has ever been, knowing that we were okay. We were actually okay. Every time I felt embarrassed by the actions of my fellow countrymen, they didn’t matter. Because deep down we were this.
And the next 16 days showed how wrong I’d been to despair, often in a supercilious way, about the state of my country. We’re lovely deep down, as shown by the volunteers - people who’d taken time off work to help out, not for money or glory, but because they’re decent human beings. I give an evening a month to help out Preston FM, which is nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to what other people do. People have such generosity, I shouldn’t have doubted people. I should ask myself why I don’t do more when I can do more.
The volunteers – and those actually paid to plan/sort the Olympics out – facilitated the actual sport, allowed it to happen in the best facilities and atmosphere possible. And their sheer joy was returned by the British public, who flocked to anything and everything they were allowed to see. I wish I’d picked up tickets and shared their joy, from a couple of hundred miles away it was infectious, if I’d witnessed the noise in the velodrome in person then I’d never forget that. It was loud on a big telly, in person it was actually to the level that could damage the hearing.
I’d like to write about the sport, about the great performances but I find it hard to separate them from the actual event itself. And it’s this which raises the Olympics over something like the World Cup. At the latter you can see a great game of football but it rarely if ever comes with a human interest story attached to it. It doesn’t break your heart the same way Gemma Gibbons looking to the sky and saying “I love you mum” did, or make you slide to your knees screaming as Mo Farah crossing the line did, knowing that you’d just seen a victory that meant more than a single race in an athletic event.
I saw an EDL march in Manchester a few weeks ago and it made me both sad and angry, to see the hatred coming from these people. My day felt bleaker by what I’d seen, an unwanted sense of shame. And I actually thought about that moment when seeing how the people in the stadium reacted, how the nation reacted when on one Saturday evening a mixed-race girl from Sheffield and a Somali Muslim who came to this country aged 8 won gold medals. It banished the memory of that EDL march, it made me feel something that the England or Scotland football teams have never managed to do to me. I felt like waving a flag for the first time in my life, lost in a patriotism that felt right: not threatening, smug or exclusive, but one that congratulated people, thanked them for their hard work, delighting in their achievement.
Because we didn’t just reserve our praise for British athletes, every venue was raucous with good play being cheered regardless of the nation involved. ‘Generosity of spirit’ is an overused phrase, especially by me, but it is right to use it to sum up these Olympics. We excelled ourselves as a nation by giving our support to fellow human beings.
And this has formed a major part of my hangover, a jolt to the grumpy misanthropic core of my being. I feel like I’ve been wrong about people for so long, that part of the problem is actually me. Great Britain, the world, actually seems a nicer place right now. Sport really doesn’t matter at all in the scheme of things: it doesn’t feed the hungry, it doesn’t stop war, it often facilitates greed and hatred, but it also shows us at our best. So to all the people who tried, who were humble in victory, gracious in defeat, those who smiled and helped others just because it was the nice thing to do, and to those who cheered on any man or woman regardless of race or religion, thank you. You’ve shown me that there is still hope for us.
Top 10 Sporting Moments Olympics 2012
1. David Rudisha winning the 800m and breaking a world record. Middle distance records are usually only broken when pacemakers are used. Not here, he just legged it. Hearing his soft, eloquent voice afterwards actually made me salute. I actually saluted the man.
2. Kirani James, a future world record destroyer and superstar, winning his 400m heat and then stopping to swap name badges with a surprised looking Oscar Pistorious because James regards him as a hero. Then in the final he shook the hands of every other competitor before celebrating his nation’s first ever medal. Another wonderful young man doing something extraordinary.
3. Jessica Ennis running the fastest 100m hurdles ever run in a heptathlon. She looked stunned, the crowd were stunned and I finally stopped fearing a heart attack at home as I paced endlessly round the room scared she’d be overawed by the atmosphere as much as I was.
4. Ben Ainslie being made to take a penalty turn for hitting a buoy in a race and responding by beating his chest in fury and telling his hairy Danish competitor that “he won’t like me when I’m angry”. They shook hands at the end though.
5. Britain winning men’s team bronze in gymnastics. A sport I hated as a kid turning out to be brilliant to watch, even though I still have a problem with events where voting is involved.
6. Mo Farah.
7. Ruta Meilutyte, a 15 year old Lithuanian winning the 100m breaststroke and her reaction afterwards: stunned, unable to speak.
8. Cycling. We destroyed the world of cycling in 2008 and then let the world think they’d caught us back up in the intervening four years before London 2012. It turns out they hadn’t, we destroyed again, with a ludicrous amount of dominance in such a big sport. Any nation that enjoys cycling must be thoroughly sick of seeing what Britain is doing to the sport. As Richard Keyes would say, “we smashed it”.
9. The women’s and men’s 100m relay teams. Boom!
10. 29 golds! 29! Team GB! Team GB! Team GB!
Top 10 Not Completely Sport Based Moments Olympics 2012
1. Gemma Gibbons looking to the sky and saying “I love you mum” after winning her semi-final. I’d not heard of her before the day began but when she did that I became an uncontrollable mess. This summed up what I loved about the Olympics but also why it sometimes feels like a sort of madness. You don’t act, well, normal.
2. Bert Le Clos. A father’s love for his son. Beautiful.
3. Usain Bolt’s dicking about before, during and after every race he was involved in. Fist bumping the kids carrying his kit out, chatting up the girl carrying the kit of his opponents and generally displaying more charisma than a 1000 footballers. He cannot be allowed to give up athletics.
4. The stadium roar. Breathtaking. Seasoned journalists say they’d never heard anything like it.The noise was so loud for Mo Farah’s 5000m win that the finish line camera vibrated so much it spoilt the winning picture.
5. The dozen moments in the opening ceremony (and a few in the closing ceremony) were I either cried like a wuss or just felt glad to be alive. For that opening ceremony Danny Boyle should be our first president. My jaw has never dropped so far open as when the brilliantly soundtracked and amazingly choreographed industrial revolution section led to the manufacture of the Olympic rings. Just thinking about it now causes the hairs on my arms to rise.
6. Chris Hoy’s mum. A mother’s love and fears for her son. Beautiful. You could include hundreds of parents in this, people like Jade Jones’ dad refusing to ever watch her in a taekwondo bout because he didn’t want to see her getting hurt.
7. The BBC presenting team: Clare Balding for being the best presenter we have, not just in sport either. Ian Thorpe for being funny and rather lovely, Michael Johnson (obvz), the whole lot of them really. Except Gary Lineker (obvz).
8. The Australian press refusing to put New Zealand in the medal table for half of the games because they had more golds than their own nation. Then one paper combined them together under ‘New Australia’.
9. That kid hugging Andy Murray.
10, The people of Great Britain. You guys were amazing.You were totally Team GB.
