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.