I just bought a new dictionary and looked up the word Olympics. I may have remembered it wrongly but I’m almost sure it went something like, “Pain in the ass sports day for show offs. Useful for bankrupting countries, upsetting locals, and leaving wildlife legacy (see White Elephants).”
For those who don’t live in the English capital city let me give you an insight in to the conversations all Londoners seem to be having right now as we get ever closer to the opening of the 2012 Olympics.
People here fall in to one of two camps. The Mayor and his pal, organiser and knight of the realm Lord Coe, say something like “Isn’t it great? It will put us on the world map. It’s worth every penny”. Everyone else says “Bloody waste of time. Traffic will be horrendous and we won’t get to work. We’re paying for some jumping and running with sticks. No wonder the country has no money.”
As far as I’m aware London is already on the world map – left of Paris, right of Dublin – so if this is a glorified advert I want my money back. It all seems so short sighted that it was surely pre ordained that the 2012 Olympics mascot would turn out to be a cuddly toy with one eye. Presumably Mr Magoo turned them down.
Already signs have gone up warning us all not to drive in London from next week as congestion will be apocalyptic, ground to air missiles have been installed on top of apartment blocks, and there’s a no fly zone over the east of London.
Stadium security, we now know, will have to be handled by our army because the original company, G4S, which is headed by the worst mullet haircut this side of 1985, has decided they can’t, after all, provide the right number of properly trained security guards. They’ve left it to the very last minute to let us know, of course, with their P.R. and Communications department stuck in the dark ages - a bit like their boss’s hair style.
Near to us the Wimbledon tennis championship courts have been turned over to the organisers of 2012 so they can change the floral hanging baskets to Olympic colours. A necessary expense I’m sure you’ll agree. Better to throw out the thousands of pounds of arrangements that looked so brilliant last week for the Championship finals so that everyone will leave the Olympics saying “the tennis wasn’t up to much but at least the flower hues replicated that of the running track.” Being colour blind may I say “thanks for nothing”.
As spectators we are paying for this sports day twice – once through taxes and again through ticket prices. My friend has bought two tickets for the swimming races costing just under one thousand pounds, and for this he gets to sit and watch the splashing for two hours and then he’s thrown out and replaced by others. He’s been told he can’t take food or even water in to the stadium as he has to buy from official vendors, and the only credit card he can use is from Visa.
Meanwhile sponsors and their connected clients, with their kids and grannies twice removed, have been battling with great British sportsmen like Will. I. Am and Japanese clients of Samsung to run with the torch through rain soaked streets of Britain spreading the good news.
Personally I’m giving it all a miss. Rightly or wrongly though, I’ll be there in the stadium watching the Paralympics which seems to me to be more about the original Olympic ideal than watching Usain Bolt preen and kiss himself all over. I’ll make sure to set out for the stadium a month ahead to get through the traffic.
So, if you want to annoy this London resident, or any other, right now just start the conversation with “you must be so excited about the Olympics.” Then run away as fast as Lord Coe used to. Or just duck!
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Yesterday
I note that the mother of Prince Charles’ maid has put a piece of toast up for auction that she made for the Royal on the day he married Lady Diana. Not exactly a good luck charm then. She’s asking five hundred pounds for it which, coincidentally, is what a piece of toast will cost in most London hotels during the Olympics.
Meantime an African mine worker has been jailed after being caught smuggling precious stones which he’d stolen from his work. This impressive man was arrested at an airport in the Congo with 127 diamonds hidden up his bottom. Now that’s what I call a diamond ring.
I came across these news stories while reading at the airport today, waiting for my daughter and her friend to take off for Spain on a working holiday.
Years ago when I left school, I took a job for the summer working with my mates in a brewery where I spent weeks watching labels stick to bottles, addresses stick to packing cases, and demented lifers stick two fingers up at us “new boys” and make our lives miserable every day from eight a.m. till five p.m.
My daughter on the other hand has used her summer to fly to Spain to work in the sunshine at a kids’ club in Marbella. Her arduous day consists of swimming and playing with children of wealthy parents from ten o’clock before checking off and heading to the beach at twop.m. That’s even fewer hours than an MP works. Can’t be fair can it?
My first day in the brewery involved me smashing bottles against a wall, sweeping up the broken glass, shoving it in a skip and then starting all over again. My daughter’s first day consisted of having coffee with a famous singer whose dad is an equally famous Russian cosmonaut, then playing with the woman’s son and bodyguard at the pool before handing the offspring back to a nanny. Where did I go wrong?
Well, I was obviously born at the wrong time for a start. When I took the bus in to the brewery all those years ago, on wet Glasgow summer days, I had never been in an aeroplane before. Holidays were always taken in Britain and ‘suntan’ was the leader of Brunei. How times have changed.
Now sixteen year old girls arrive at their prom (another story I caught up with in that newspaper) in helicopters and limousines, with two turning up this week in full evening dress in Barbie boxes on the back of a trailer. In my day we wore matching patterned shirts and ties and caught the bus, then we stood at one side of a hall for the whole night avoiding eye contact, or indeed any contact, with girls till it was time to go home.
But there are downsides to being a teenager today, as shown by Britney Marshall in that same paper. The poor girl is only fourteen but is getting pressurised by her mum and sisters in to getting a boob job. Between them, Britney’s female family have ten breasts, three litres of silicone, thirteen operations, and one brain cell. Britney’s mum says she’s a psychic, so no doubt she can read my mind right now and see what I think of her.
Add to this pressure of looking good the problems of drugs, unemployment, student loans, etc, and I certainly don’t grudge kids their trips to the sun to look after the Russian billionaires’ offspring for a few weeks, but I guess the part of me that’s still back in that Glasgow brewery has a tear in his eye. I’m simply jealous.
I’ll look and see if I might still have a salmon paste sandwich somewhere from my school leavers’ dance. Maybe I’ll cheer myself up and put it on eBay alongside Prince Charles’ toast.
Meantime an African mine worker has been jailed after being caught smuggling precious stones which he’d stolen from his work. This impressive man was arrested at an airport in the Congo with 127 diamonds hidden up his bottom. Now that’s what I call a diamond ring.
I came across these news stories while reading at the airport today, waiting for my daughter and her friend to take off for Spain on a working holiday.
Years ago when I left school, I took a job for the summer working with my mates in a brewery where I spent weeks watching labels stick to bottles, addresses stick to packing cases, and demented lifers stick two fingers up at us “new boys” and make our lives miserable every day from eight a.m. till five p.m.
My daughter on the other hand has used her summer to fly to Spain to work in the sunshine at a kids’ club in Marbella. Her arduous day consists of swimming and playing with children of wealthy parents from ten o’clock before checking off and heading to the beach at twop.m. That’s even fewer hours than an MP works. Can’t be fair can it?
My first day in the brewery involved me smashing bottles against a wall, sweeping up the broken glass, shoving it in a skip and then starting all over again. My daughter’s first day consisted of having coffee with a famous singer whose dad is an equally famous Russian cosmonaut, then playing with the woman’s son and bodyguard at the pool before handing the offspring back to a nanny. Where did I go wrong?
Well, I was obviously born at the wrong time for a start. When I took the bus in to the brewery all those years ago, on wet Glasgow summer days, I had never been in an aeroplane before. Holidays were always taken in Britain and ‘suntan’ was the leader of Brunei. How times have changed.
Now sixteen year old girls arrive at their prom (another story I caught up with in that newspaper) in helicopters and limousines, with two turning up this week in full evening dress in Barbie boxes on the back of a trailer. In my day we wore matching patterned shirts and ties and caught the bus, then we stood at one side of a hall for the whole night avoiding eye contact, or indeed any contact, with girls till it was time to go home.
But there are downsides to being a teenager today, as shown by Britney Marshall in that same paper. The poor girl is only fourteen but is getting pressurised by her mum and sisters in to getting a boob job. Between them, Britney’s female family have ten breasts, three litres of silicone, thirteen operations, and one brain cell. Britney’s mum says she’s a psychic, so no doubt she can read my mind right now and see what I think of her.
Add to this pressure of looking good the problems of drugs, unemployment, student loans, etc, and I certainly don’t grudge kids their trips to the sun to look after the Russian billionaires’ offspring for a few weeks, but I guess the part of me that’s still back in that Glasgow brewery has a tear in his eye. I’m simply jealous.
I’ll look and see if I might still have a salmon paste sandwich somewhere from my school leavers’ dance. Maybe I’ll cheer myself up and put it on eBay alongside Prince Charles’ toast.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Happy - ish Birthday To You
I take a lot for granted – that daylight will follow nightime, that my kids think I’m clueless and embarrassing, and that British footballers will always play the game as if they have arthritis, their shoe laces tied together, and gold bullion hidden in their boots.
But, if I was in danger of taking good luck for granted I had a wake up call this week all, unfortunately, at my daughter’s expense.
Yesterday was the day before her 18th birthday. (I know, you are about to say I look too young aren’t you? Er, aren’t you? Please, take your time.) So what could go wrong?
Well, for starters we had a complete electricity cut for the whole day after a stupid neighbour employed cowboy labourers to erect a post outside his house. They drilled down through a power cable and left the whole street without electricity till night fall. No hot water for showers means, to a teenage birthday girl, the equivalent of no oxygen, light, heat or life. It’s a disaster. Forget the no electric kettle for cups of tea, no TV or lights, no cooking or microwave, a total lack of computer action, silent radio and a perfect excuse not to shave. Actually that last bit was good if I’m honest. It may be a disaster for teenage legs but for dads it’s heaven sent. I suppose even hell might have a corner away from the fire that has an ice cream van.
But, being a paid up snob, I had one extra problem that the other neighbours didn’t experience. The gates to my house are electric so, although I could climb over them with a bit of care and effort, I couldn’t get my car out. This, on the day Debbie had organised to take our daughters and her mum to The Ritz for afternoon tea as a pre birthday celebration. As you do.
Seriously, the Ritz was meant to be a day my daughter would remember forever. I’d promised to drop everyone off then motor on to pick up some special surprise helium balloons before driving to do my radio show. So what to do? Kindly, a neighbour drove them to the station after they scaled our gates with stiletto heels, and I took a taxi for the rest of the day. The birthday surprise was saved in the end but at the cost of a few rips in dresses which appeared after the gate climbing.
I know the stupid neighbour who booked these cheap workers didn’t check if they have insurance, and I also know they won’t even know what insurance is, so do I go to the guy and ask him to pay me back for the cab journeys, the wasted food in our freezers, and the dress repairs? Or am I being mean? Do you think he’s likely to pay up?
With one disaster out of the way the actual birthday today had to go without a hitch, didn’t it? Well almost.
We hired a boat as a surprise, complete with champagne and banners, and the whole family set off up the Thames. Within two minutes the engine broke down and we drifted aimlessly until another boat came to our rescue. Our hour on the river consisted of us being towed up and down with one of our party dangling over the front to keep the rope taught.
Annalie tells me the disasters ensured she won’t forget her 18th in a hurry, which is kind of her. Once I get hold of my neighbour and the boat owner I doubt if they’ll forget either.
But, if I was in danger of taking good luck for granted I had a wake up call this week all, unfortunately, at my daughter’s expense.
Yesterday was the day before her 18th birthday. (I know, you are about to say I look too young aren’t you? Er, aren’t you? Please, take your time.) So what could go wrong?
Well, for starters we had a complete electricity cut for the whole day after a stupid neighbour employed cowboy labourers to erect a post outside his house. They drilled down through a power cable and left the whole street without electricity till night fall. No hot water for showers means, to a teenage birthday girl, the equivalent of no oxygen, light, heat or life. It’s a disaster. Forget the no electric kettle for cups of tea, no TV or lights, no cooking or microwave, a total lack of computer action, silent radio and a perfect excuse not to shave. Actually that last bit was good if I’m honest. It may be a disaster for teenage legs but for dads it’s heaven sent. I suppose even hell might have a corner away from the fire that has an ice cream van.
But, being a paid up snob, I had one extra problem that the other neighbours didn’t experience. The gates to my house are electric so, although I could climb over them with a bit of care and effort, I couldn’t get my car out. This, on the day Debbie had organised to take our daughters and her mum to The Ritz for afternoon tea as a pre birthday celebration. As you do.
Seriously, the Ritz was meant to be a day my daughter would remember forever. I’d promised to drop everyone off then motor on to pick up some special surprise helium balloons before driving to do my radio show. So what to do? Kindly, a neighbour drove them to the station after they scaled our gates with stiletto heels, and I took a taxi for the rest of the day. The birthday surprise was saved in the end but at the cost of a few rips in dresses which appeared after the gate climbing.
I know the stupid neighbour who booked these cheap workers didn’t check if they have insurance, and I also know they won’t even know what insurance is, so do I go to the guy and ask him to pay me back for the cab journeys, the wasted food in our freezers, and the dress repairs? Or am I being mean? Do you think he’s likely to pay up?
With one disaster out of the way the actual birthday today had to go without a hitch, didn’t it? Well almost.
We hired a boat as a surprise, complete with champagne and banners, and the whole family set off up the Thames. Within two minutes the engine broke down and we drifted aimlessly until another boat came to our rescue. Our hour on the river consisted of us being towed up and down with one of our party dangling over the front to keep the rope taught.
Annalie tells me the disasters ensured she won’t forget her 18th in a hurry, which is kind of her. Once I get hold of my neighbour and the boat owner I doubt if they’ll forget either.
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