The Olympic Torch Relay
A Contrarian's View
The London 2012 Olympic Torch.
Affectionately, known as 'The Cheesegrater'
Affectionately, known as 'The Cheesegrater'
So, finally, after four years of hysterical hype and embarrassing self-congratulations, the faux-golden, airtex, over-sized ice-cream cone, that is The Olympic Torch, touches down on our sullied shores.
Ignited in Greece, and having unfortunately, survived its perilous first class flight from the Acropolis; that famous Greek ruin, which structurally, is in a similar state to their crumbling economy, this ridiculous symbol of sporting stupidity has now commenced its seventy-day journey along the highways and bye-ways of Britain's usually litter strewn streets. Which will, of course, have been swept and cleaned for the first time in twenty years, so foreigners don't perceive the truth, that in reality, we are a nation of ill-educated and uncaring litter louts.
Carried by a motley selection of the good, the bad, the ugly and past Olympians, whose athletic prowess has long departed, the torch will be transported round the country by land sea and air.
It will be held aloft in a sickening display of enforced national pride by specially selected, supposedly inspirational figures, dressed in wholly inappropriate white pyjamas.
It will be visiting almost every part of 'Broken Britain' on its tortuous route to its final destination, the new Olympic stadium. A construction so unbelievably underwhelming, that it will leave most visitors amazed at our lack of architectural talent.
Obviously designed by a bunch of architects and engineers who'd remembered from their school technology lessons the enduring strength of the triangle, this doughnut of dreams will be the Olympic flame's final home, before its ceremonial transfer to the next country unlucky enough to host this expensive spectacle of sporting sycophancy.
Unfortunately, the praise heaped upon the heads of the pyjama wearing torch-bearers, will be as nothing if one of our athlete's wins a medal, and if that medal happens to be gold, then the eulogies and adoration will continue for months, decades, years, and if the winning margin is significant, centuries.
Any recipient of gold medal honour, will be interviewed analysed and worshipped ad nauseam. The ubiquitous media will seek opinions for their success from, parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, distant cousins, school-friends, friends of school-friends, kids who attended a neighbouring school. ex-teachers, coaches, priests, vicars, ex-scout and cub-mistresses, infant teachers, the child claiming to have been a best friend in nursery school, and of course, the mid-wife responsible for the unfortunate winner's delivery. If I believed in him, I'd cry, 'God help us all!'
Note to readers: I shall be returning later to report again on The Olympics closer to the start. Your views are welcome, just click on the comments tab below.
