Established 1999

BY IAN PARSONS FROM LONDON

15 sierpień 2012

An Olimpic Diary - 15.08

26 July. I wake up, look through window, black clouds on the horizon, a summer storm? No it’s the Olympics, that event we’ve all been dreading for years. What’s happening in Hyde Park? I walk to a familiar spot. They’ve built bridges over the road, there’s a huge walled enclosure, pontoons in the lake, soldiers everywhere, volunteers in uniform walking purposefully. Suddenly I don’t recognise the city, I’m filled with fear, awe, expectation, like going over the edge of Niagara Falls in a barrell. Yes it’s finally here, tomorrow it starts….

27 July. The opening Ceremony

I’m lucky to have a ticket for the Promenade concert in the Royal Albert Hall starting at 18.30. Barenboim is conducting Beethoven’s 9th symphony, such anticipation. It’s wonderful of course. When the voices enter in the fourth movement  tears roll down our cheeks. A triumph. Walking out at 20.00 o’clock some of us cross to the Albert Memorial to wait for the clock to reach 20.12. The Red Arrows (acrobatic flying team) are due to fly over. A sudden roar from the east, and they fly overhead, an arrow shooting low over the trees leaving behind a ribbon of red, white and blue melting into the evening sky. Yes, it’s happening. I dash home across the park in time to watch the amazing Opening Ceremony on television. And amongst the bearers of the Olympic flag is Maestro Barenboim, who has been spirited across the winding streets of the city to the Olympic Park ten miles away. Suddenly, like most other Londoners, I’m transformed into a shouting, flag-waving sports addict. How uncharacteristic, how un-British.


28 July


Day one. I rush to South Kensington to cheer the women cyclists in the road race. They zoom into view near Harrod’s and the whole pack has disappeared within 30 seconds to spend a lovely Saturday in the leafy hills of Surrey before returning at breakneck speed to finish in the Mall near Buckingham Palace. Sadly I miss that. An afternoon concert. Sport versus Culture! Culture wins.


29 July


Like day one, but this time it’s the men cyclists. Afterwards I visit the Exhibition of Olympic History at the Royal Opera House, see medals and torches from preceding games and have my photo taken with this year’s design. Somehow my expanding waistline does not suit the slim elegance of the torch.


A couple of days watching the television. There’s a scandal because many seats are left empty by sponsors who don’t seem interested in the sport. They are going to sell them to us. So I try my luck on the website. How about tennis, let’s look at Wimbledon. A seat on No 1 Court for Thursday costing only £16 (concession to those of us over 60). I get out my credit card … and it’s mine.


2 August


A smooth ride on the Underground to Wimbledon, I pick up my ticket, go through the efficient security getting frisked on the way. Suddenly I’m on the hallowed ground. This is the sport that King Henry VIII enjoyed nearly 500 years ago at Hampton Court Palace (presently the backdrop to the triumph of British cyclist Bradley Wiggins). My seat is perfect and I see Andy Murray play twice, plus Serena Williams. How has this happened, I need to pinch myself.


More ticket success. This time it’s Greco-Roman wrestling at a stadium in London’s East End, the area that saw ships come and go, bringing goods from around the World.


5 August


I enter the arena for the gladiatorial spectacle. I don’t understand the rules of wrestling, but a cheerful American commentator explains all. It’s very strange. There are three separate pairs of lycra-clad, cauliflower-eared musclemen grappling at the same time. Loud rock music blares from the loud speakers. The victorious and the defeated process out of the stadium while new victims are marched in surrounded by trainers and flag-bearers. It has the feel of a factory production line. The spectators also process in with beer and burgers, then process out to relieve themselves in the Olympian toilets, then re-enter with more beer. Another production line. We are 12 miles from Wimbledon in distance, but 1000 miles in atmosphere. Gradually over three hours the vanquished are discarded to weep over their bruises, while the victors return to new battles until only four remain. They will return in the evening to medals and glory for Iran, Azerbaijan, Georgia and wherever else their homelands are. We spectators file out in our thousands, making our way to the railway in orderly fashion. How well the transport system is coping, can this be the same system we have been cursing all our lives?


7 August


I’m off to Hyde Park today for the Men’s Triathlon. I weave through the crowds and find a spot overlooking the Serpentine (the lake created at the suggestion of Queen Caroline nearly 300 years ago) and reflect on what makes people punish themselves in this manner. The athletes march out onto a pier over the water, each one cheered by the crowd. The gun is fired and splash! A furious shoal of mankind thrashes through the water making a complete circuit of the lake. I know nothing about the competitors but it soon emerges that among the favorites are two brothers from Yorkshire, Alistair and Jonathan Brownlee. Yorkshire folk are a down-to-earth lot. These two don’t go to exotic countries for their training, but prefer the hills and dales, and the wind and rain of their native county. After the swim they cycle round and round a twisting circuit passing Buckingham Palace and the smart hotels of Park Lane. Then it’s off the pedals and into trainers for a run round and round and round the lake. Don’t they get dizzy? Brother Jonathan has incurred a penalty and has to stop for 15 seconds. But he soon catches the leaders and sees his elder brother ahead crossing the line for a gold medal, Jonathan gets bronze. The crowds cheer. How can this little island be winning so many medals? So un-British.


12 August. The last day


The weather has been lovely and I’ve been told that blackberries are ripening. So I get up early. Why? It’s Sunday! I go a couple of miles west to Wormwood Scrubs, a big open park, notorious for the prison on it’s edge holding the  robbers and murderers of the city. I walk to the forests of brambles and gather the fragrant black luscious fruit. But time is marching on and it’s the final day, it’s the marathon. I get home and rush on the Underground to the City, just near St Paul’s Cathedral in time to witness the three African runners propelled by the shouting crowd towards their victories.


So it’s nearly all over, now only the closing ceremony. The sun sets, we are glued to our television screens. Oh no! George Michael is singing another song! Oh no! Not the Spice Girls again! At least Paul McCartney has stayed out of view. But the end nears, the crowds become silent, that beautiful cauldron of flame unfolds and the fire goes out. What will we do now. It’s all over.




IAN PARSONS
London

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