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.