London Olympics – Reformed Cynic

I spent the greater part of the last 12 months being incredibly uninterested in the Olympics. I know this is probably sacriligious to sports fans around the world who would really want to be in London for the biggest sporting event. Those who would and possibly have, spent thousands of pounds/dollars etc for the chance to come to the UK and be part of the extravaganza. To those of us who live here, many of us only saw the problems. The taxes, the costs, the congestion, the designated Olympic driving lanes adding to the traffic that already grinds London to a standstill. The increase in bodies on the Underground, the lack of hotel rooms at affordable prices and the total disappearance of taxis. Add to that my total disinterest in athletics, gymnastics, archery, rowing and swimming – and generally I was somewhere between ho-hum and yawn.

But…

The energy around London, the Olympic fever, the national pride, the almost disbelief at how well it’s all gone, how well it’s been organised, the surge of excitement around the city that overflowed into the offices, the coffee rooms, the kitchens and homes around the country and it’s hard to remember that I was ever anything but enthusiastic.

I have been out in the rain at 6am on a Sunday morning to wave the Olympic flame on its way around the countryside, there I was surrounded by flag waving enthusiastic crowds in their thousands, with breakfasts provided alongside brass bands as we all enjoyed this outpouring of pride and enthusiasm that was nothing short of infectious.

The opening ceremony was on while I was out of the country, but I still YouTubed the Chariots of Fire/Mr Bean, the Queen/James Bond 007 and the lighting of the official flame. I was slowly being immersed in the whole event.

But I work in London and just getting into work was, we were led to believe, going to be a problem (see my earlier blog), but no it didn’t happen.

So for the last two weeks, I found myself watching all the highlights – Michael Phelps winning gold, Le Clos winning the gold for South Africa to the overwhelming pride of his excited father.  The British women’s teams rowing to victory, Bolt winning three track golds, the marathons which took the competitors right past my office door.  For me, most especially the heptathlon with Jessica Ennis and Mo Farah for his two golds, when it seemed that the nation as a whole held its breath and then exhaled in overwhelmed relief and pride; when 80,000 people in the auditorium roared out the national anthem and wondered why they’d ever worried.

So suffice to say…I was hooked, I am proud of London and what it has achieved, I am reminded why I love this city, why it is one of the best cities in the world. And reminded that I sometimes take it for granted..but when the chips are down – what a place, what an extraordinary two weeks. Drama, tears, excitement, friendships made, hopes dashed and dreams that came true.

And now, the torch has passed, the London Games are over and the cheers subside…if only we could remember this pride, enthusiasm, love of neighbour and goodwill going forward now it’s all over…

Commuting Joys

Ask anyone, no I dare you.  Ask anyone.  The British love to queue, they do it everywhere for everything.  Known the world round for it.  So why is it that when I get to the train platform first in the morning, am right beside the door when the train pulls in…the tall one standing two back behind me, stills manages to get ahead of me.  She’s like a chameleon, suddenly she disappears from behind, slides past you and steps in front of you…and all in a split second.  Being tall she purports not to see the rest of us more vertically challenged.  So she arrives at the last minute and using some mind control or other is on the train, sitting down with her coat off and her book out before the rest of us have even put a foot inside the door…(ahem, I do admit to a slight exaggeration for effect here).

As if it isn’t bad enough that the tall one leaps over us all, there’s also the guy with the bicycle who uses it as a weapon to get ahead of anyone at all.  You duck the pedals as they approach your shins, you move along with the doors to be just there as the train stops.  And suddenly there’s a sharp object in the back of your calf, as you delay by a nano-second and he’s already standing closer behind you than your partner does during a slow dance.  Personal space obviously comes with a “What’s That” sticker attached.

Commuting into London is difficult as the best of times.  We are all a captive audience to the Rail Companies’ incompetence, over charging, lack of seating and late running.  We pay in advance for a service that from the get-go we know will never be delivered.  They bank the money with a snigger and a nod to the rail regulator that,  at best, is a toothless waste of time, and having paid out their exorbitant bonuses to their top management, they claim to invest in the infra-structure…of course they do!!

So we poor London workers pay up, turn up, stand up and are caught up in a transportation farce of monumental proportions.  If this was how the British Empire had been run in the 19^th century, it would have lasted less than 12 months.

Now excuse me as I get my elbows at the ready, my shins double protected, the train’s approaching and I’m at the 5 most stressful minutes of my day, are there seats available, do I turn left or right when I get on the train, how fast can I move if I do see a seat, and when that other passenger stands in my way, can I hit him to get him to move faster?

A weekend in the Irish countryside is eye-wateringly attractive right now.