We Need To Talk About Kevin

Winner of the Pietersen
knob-alike comp

Pietersen that is. He has managed to get himself thrown out of the England cricket team despite scoring a brilliant century in the last test and despite the current final test being possibly the most important since England won the Ashes down under. Which leads one to conclude that he really must be an unbearable prick to have achieved such exclusion. Professional sportsmen like winning and will put up with much to achieve it and I judge that England coach Andy Flower is among the hardest of hard cases - this was not done on a whim. Plus we have the conclusive evidence that Pietersen's banishment is just - even archer prick Piers Morgan has denounced the decision and , I'm sorry, no power on earth will persuade me to share a conclusion with him.

Yes We Can

I will be leaving in a few minutes for my final shift on this the final day of the Games. This will be my last post from my perch in the corner of the coffee lounge at the Twickenham Nuffield, to whom thanks for hot showers, free towels, reviving americanos, sockets to recharge my bits of technology and not least for reviving my interest in swimming.

This is not the opportunity for a full analysis of the point/success/excess/highlights of the Games (not enough time) but I will just say this - even if you disapprove of the whole shebang you would have to concede that we (the British) have made a bloody good fist of it.

I was there

The Olympic Stadium on Friday and Olympic Park as a whole were beyond expectation. I think Mum was as blown away as me. To top it all we can say we have seen a world record broken in an Olympic final - the American quartet obligingly expunging the twenty-seven year old mark of the East German chemically enhanced sprinters. Another disgraceful chapter in sport's history closed.

My New Hero

It had been a long sweaty day guiding the Irish around the geography of the ExCel yesterday and I was decidedly foot-sore and leg-weary by its end so I had a cursory swim (millionaire style, I had the pool to myself) then did my bit of blogging and settled down with a glass of red to watch the athletics. Understandably perhaps the amazing Usain Bolt was the focus of attention but I felt the true star of the night was David Rudisha the Maasai half-miler who broke his own world record and dragged the entire field to personal best times of mind-bending speed. The BBC got it mildly wrong when they disrespectfully failed to cut away from Bolt's post race posturing (good natured but posturing nonetheless) to show Rudisha's medal ceremony in its entirety.

My grandfather, a good county athlete and an elite level coach and administrator (an honorary life vice president of the AAA) nurtured my interest in sport but athletics in particular and his hero had been British half-miler Douglas Lowe. It transpired that Grandpa was cut out not for half-miling but for the sprints but it was Lowe he admired, and so I adopt Rodisha as my new athletic hero. Massive, elegant and dignified. Top banana. 

"Welcome To Dublin 2012"

This was the Overgraduate joke du jour, uttered to the streams of Irishmen and women who poured into Custom House DLR this afternoon and took over the pubs of Docklands before those of them who had managed to wangle a ticket invaded the ExCel Arena to cheer their lass Katie Taylor to boxing gold. To give you a flavour of the stupendous atmosphere the Irish brought with them consider this from the BBC correspondent Ben Dirs,

"Complete and utter delirium at ExCeL as Katie Taylor pulls the last two rounds out of the bag to win the lightweight crown. I've been to Rugby World Cup finals, I've been to Wimbledon finals, I've seen Great Britain win three gold medals in 45 minutes at the Olympic Stadium - but I have never heard a noise like that."

Full story at Katie Taylor Gold. I know I've said it before but it bears repeating - you have to admire the Irish reaction to economic adversity - they simply do not let it affect their commitment to the craic. And I suppose that I have to concede that one benefit of Ireland's membership of the Euro is that they don't find London beer prices at all daunting. I was only outside the arena directing joyous human traffic but nonetheless it was a privilege to be there.

The Irish angle overlooks that there had been a bit of history made at ExCel even before Taylor took to the ring. The first ever women's boxing title had been won by Nicola Adams from Leeds. Not quite sure what my Grandma would have made of women boxing but the Yorkshire element might have swayed her. Grandma knew what she liked and liked what she bloody well knew.

I do like the polarities in the good old BBC reporting parallel British success in two sports today: a black girl from Leeds in boxing and what I presume is a posh bird in dressage - Adams and Dujardin Win Golds. Full Overgraduate respect to both.

Blankers-Koen wins. Mum is
seventh row 367 from left

Day off tomorrow and Iron Dave is taking his mother to the athletics. Mum attended every day of the 1948 Olympic athletics and I doubt there will be many others there tomorrow who can say that. Really looking forward to it. The weather has turned on its most gorgeous face and a rosy glow of goodness has settled over the whole London 2012 enterprise. It is only silly games but it has been rather bloody marvellous from  my privileged viewpoint.   

We Hold These Truths To Be Self Evident

You might just have noticed but in many respects I am not an old school shrinking violet, nor am I most people's idea of the stiff upper lip English commercial gent. But in some things I am dyed in the wool and one of those is this - no able-bodied and self-respecting man should sit on public transport whilst women stand. It's just bad form to sit there pretending you're oblivious. Get up you skank. My views in this regard are too rarely shared and I have to report that I see plenty of my fellow Games volunteers offending on this one. I know we're working for nothing but we could extend the goodwill even further if we pioneered the readoption of the old courtesies and promoted a little eye contact on the tube.

Dave and his trusty steed

Remember the 1923 Cup Final? First Wembley final, Bolton 2, West Ham 0, but that barely matters (except to Bolton fans one supposes) because it was the policeman on a white horse controlling the crowd who captured all the headlines. Well for a brief interlude at lunchtime today I was that white horse as the boxing fans descended en masse and uniformly tardy upon Excel. Armed only with my voice (I let weaker souls have the megaphone) and a rising sense of stimulating panic my amateur colleagues and I managed to avoid a descent into riot. Great fun once it was over but mildly shit inducing as it occurred. No word of a lie an observer has offered me some professional stewarding work. He had assumed I was a bouncer by trade and was convinced that my line about commercial law was a wind-up. We have decided to regard this as a compliment. 

Tales From The Olympic City

Yes you can

What will you remenber about Super Saturday, the day on which Team GB won six gold medals, three of them quite stunningly in the athletic arena? Well this inveterate sports fanatic was working a late shift so caught the morning rowing medals, but saw none of the athletic triumphs, being in transit back to Twickenham during the hour of the Ennis, Rutherford, Farah miracle. Instead I was half way up the suburban redoubt that is Westfield South in my full Olympic regalia (aka looking a bit of a tit) when I heard screams of joy from behind front windows. I peered over the nearest privet and there was a large screen beaming a picture of a sweaty but happy looking Farah. The residents spotted me and instead of calling the police they opened the window and told me that our boy had won. I thereafter completed my passage to the camp site with lighter tread and headed tentwards for a sly glass of red wine (it's a dry site but they're not going to search my tent are they and what an Englishman does under canvass is his own bloody business) and to listen to the sports news on my radio. I had pretty much taken it as read that Ennis would win but it was one of those double-take moments when they mentioned the Rutherford victory. I had heard of him before but I am rather an anorak in such matters and I bet not many others had. No bollocks about it being a sub-standard competition please. You just have to beat all of those who turn up, them's the rules.

A funny thing happened to me on duty the other day and it ended with your hero being stopped by the police whilst dressed as a bit of a tit. The story starts with a lady on crutches who had somehow evaded the best laid and inclusive plans of the organising committee and appeared in my patch half way round the walking route to the Excel Arena. Whereat she uttered that she could go no further and opined that a wheelchair would come in handy. Your hero was on hand to act upon this demand and sought a supervisor to radio the request in. But the supervisors had all gone to lunch and had taken their radios with them. Inspiration is always at hand in these situations and I knew that the acessibility shuttle (really that's what we have to call it - it's a bus for the infirm and the criminally fat) docked nearby and that there would be wheelchairs aplenty. In I tore and asked the G4S security children if a chair might be available. Their radios crackled and presently a short irritated man brought down the required transportational aid. He had something of the look of Homer Simpson but rather less toned. He saw me, he saw my uniform and he intoned 'They're not having it' ('they' being the volunteers) for, quoth he, this wheelchair belonged to 'Transport' and 'he' (your hero the Overgraduate no less - I know, cheeky bastard) must find a chair from his own team's resources. Now I was a good boy and refrained from chinning the sweaty chump. At this point I was still a model of moderation and asked if he could please call my team on the radio importantly clamped to his grubby lapel. No he could not and your hero must find a radio belonging to his own team. Still the Boy Roberts did not rise to the bait but asked plaintively what was to be done about the becrutched lady left back on the access way. That, the pasty one concluded, was not his problem. At this point the Overgraduate took an executive decision not to waste any more time talking to this wanker but to resume his search for help back on the mean Docklands streets. He set off again at full pace but not without first mustering his finest sarcasm and informing Homer that he had been 'magnificently unhelpful'. This was,of course, a perfectly accurate summation of his behaviour (by any definition he was unhelpful and there is something magnificent about a dickhead fully exercising his art) but I confess my tone was scathing and I'm afraid it tipped my new mate over the edge. He shouted at my retreating form, 'Stop him!' This was directed at the G4S youth but I had too much pace for him (a fair comment on our indolent young?) and in any event he was probably a tad puzzled at how a simple endeavour to help an old lady had escalated into an international incident. Fair dos to the youth he thought on his feet and yelled to the nearby gaggle of coppers to waylay the fleeing fifty-two year old. Which they did. I think it was the guns which persuaded me to stop. There was then a delay whilst Homer wheezed his way to the locus of my interception. In fairness to flabmeister he now did his own bit of quick thinking and attempted to rationalise the drama he had helped script - he told the rozzers that he thought I was trying to steal the wheelchair! Which would make me the world's doziest criminal - I mean what better way to steal a manky local authority wheelchair than to do it in full view of police and security and wearing a uniform that makes you stand out in a paint explosion. Anyway the boys in blue eventually let me go and the Olympic machine cranked up to find a wheelchair from somewhere other than the point nearest to where it was needed. 

The initial reaction to all of this when I dutifully reported it was instructive. The Olympic machine is painfully politically correct and on more than one occasion I was assured that no one was at fault here and that the conflict must be mediated away into a happy liberal oblivion. Credit where credit is due I think the machine did eventually concede that Homer had been far the bigger of two tits in this one (he should apparently have let me have the chair in the first place) but the 'no blame' fixation is a misguided fudge. Homer and I were both to blame - he for being an insufferable, lazy, ugly, uncharitable, lazy, half-brained, lazy, unfragrant, lazy, mean-spirited, lazy tosser; me for being mildly sarcastic and thinking my priority was to help the old lady. Being as what I am a lawyer, I credit myself an expert on causation and contributory negligence (rather as I am an expert on what women want and what sort of wine to drink with couscous) and I think we can apportion the blame for this one, 99% to jobsworth and 1% to The Boy Roberts - the latter figure has been rounded up. Happy ending: Lord Coe has let me keep my accreditation. One other little detail: I am a volunteer, Homer is one of the paid staff.

venerable venue

Another day off yesterday and a good trip to the proper volleyball (not the pervert beach variety) courtesy of nephew Harry. I was accompanied by number two daughter and we had a jolly good time capped off by fish and chips in the Prince of Wales Feathers. Venue for the volleyball is the Games' oldest venue, the venerable Earls Court which acquits itself very satisfactorily. My only complaint is the organisers' perception that they need to have some half-wit refugee from hospital radio whipping the crowd into a frenzy of ambivalence. Volleyball is a terrific and athletic game and doesn't need such bollocks. One must mourn that there are no longer sufficient holiday camps to provide gainful employment for such morons.

A nice story from today's shift to finish. It illustrates the spirit which most often pervades these Games. A lone Thai visitor asked me to take his photograph in front of a parked London cab. The cab driver sussed what was going on and jumped out to let the tourist sit at the wheel for the photo. Nice touch.    

Like A Bad Actor I'm Resting

Thursday 11.30am.

By the end of yesterday's stint at the Excel I was absolutely bloody knackered. Relentless cheerfulness is very, very taxing, as is being on your feet all day trying to twist feet away from your Adidas sponsored blisters. Day off today and after three early early starts and despite the handicap of tent dwelling and the insistence of a middle aged bladder I managed to sleep for eleven hours without having to trudge throuh the cold dew to the toilets.



Ooh that's better

It's interesting what you miss when living the outdoor life. There are the obvious things such as a comfortable bed and cooked food (although if on duty near to the venue we go into the centre for a passable hot meal) but the one that has surprised me most has been a ready supply of good coffee. I hadn't twigged quite how much I thrive on this drug until faced with a situation where the only source comes at Starbucks prices. I have confined myself to one fix a day and that has come in paper cups which is just not the same as proper, civilised, porcelain, sitting coffee. So right now I am in my usual perch in the corner of the lounge of the Twickenham Nuffield Health Club recharging my batteries (literally - all my electric toys are plugged in around me) and about to enjoy a second large americano. To keep up the sheen of healthy athleticism I'm also having an isotonic cherry muffin.

Time to take stock. As my regular critic and commentator ViperJohn has pertinently noted, we volunteers are living in a bubble at these Games and undoubtedly see less of the action than the enthusiastic couch potato, however I get the distinct impression that things are going well and that there is a mood of goodwill from the country towards the whole massive endeavour. Some spectators (quite a few in fact) take the trouble to tell us this and to thank us.  You get the odd naysayer of course. I had one clown yesterday who assured me that my statement that it was five minutes more walking to the venue was 'utter bullshit' - now this had, I suppose, an element of accuracy because I'd timed it and it actually only took me three minutes but I had thought it best to err on the side of caution where families were walking with young children. Anyway I trust his bemused little boy will have garnered happier memories of his day at the Olympics than his dad being a twat. Possibly not because one has to suspect that his dad is always a twat. Which puts him in the company of that arse-faced scotsman Frankie Boyle - Boyle/Adlington Tweet. Boyle is a bully. He can say what he wants - we live in that kind of a country - but the principal job qualification for comedy is that you're funny. Now Boyle is actually funny but rather in the way that Robert Mugabe is funny - you have to laugh at the absurdity of a world that accommodates such people but conclude that it would be no worse off for their never having existed. And, plaudits to David Walliams who has countered Boyle and who as an Olympic Ambassador conducts himself self-effacingly and chivalrously. He was on 5 Live last night and gave an interview that was a model of good sense and modesty. It is not always necessary to be seen to be 'ironic' - sometimes you just look a complete tosser. If the boy Boyle fancies it, I'll go into training and challenge him to three rounds of boxing. I've never boxed and I'm what Boyle would probably call a middle-class English wanker but I quite fancy an opportunity to put one one his smug face. In a purely ironic way of course.

"Nice ball son"

At one stage yesterday I was at a lonely post directing meagre walkers in from Canning Town and had contrasting conversations with two locals. The first asked me what was going on at Excel! 'The Olympics' I explained, "F***** load of old bollocks" quoth he. Shamefully I had no greater riposte than to call 'Have a nice day' at his retreating form. Next up was a Barbadian road-sweeper who stopped to talk sport and cricket in particular. He related how as a young tearaway fast bowler he had bowled the opening over in club cricket at a sixty year old Conrad Hunte. He banged in his best fastest ball and the sexagenarian plonked his front foot down the pitch and played a perfect forward defensive stroke - that rocketed for four. he proceeded to do this five more times to complete the over, smiling after each shot and saying, "Nice ball son." A winning and humble story. He had clearly gone on to play some decent cricket both in Barbados and in London but that he started with this tale told a lot about him. We parted as friends who will doubtless never speak again. He was deeply impressed that I had seen Garry Sobers play and that the first century I ever saw scored was by Rohan Kanhai.

Looking better than the
volunteers

Bradley Wiggins yesterday confirmed what I had already told you - cycling is the new rock and roll. He added an Olympic gold to the Tour de France won only eleven days ago. As I alighted at Twickenham after my shift, hordes of cheered spectators thronged the platform having caught a glimpse of the time trial through the streets of Surrey. Tour de France tee shirts aplenty. Must get one. Which brings me to the fashion section of this blog. Stella McCartney has had a mixed Olympics. On the credit side, I like the team kit. Further good news for Team McCartney - she didn't design the super-chav shell suits worn at the opening ceremony. Those were the work of some deluded clown at Next. On the debit side, I'm sorry but the crimson cuffs on the volunteer jackets are naff although they do assist in making us stand out to the crowds. Greater demerit - Sir Paul McCartney - I love the Beatles (it's here on the blog) but somebody needs to stop letting him tarnish his own reputation. Hey Jude sung out of tune should not have been the keynote of the opening ceremony. I bet you never thought you'd read it here, but thank goodness for the Arctic Monkeys.

Friday 10.00 am.

I had to dash off before posting yesterday because the call came from Twickenham. After years of waiting I finally walked out of the players' tunnel into the arena, courtesy of that fine gentleman Gary Street who gave me a personal tour.

I'm on a late shift for the next three days which will be easier on my sleep patterns but with the athletics now starting I suspect that transport will be yet more crowded.