Every week for 12 weeks until the dawn of the Year 2012, I am blogging about things to look forward to and things to dread about the coming year. Today there are...
...12 Weeks To 2012: The London Olympics
You know when you’re on a really crowded tube – I mean so crowded that faces are pressed up against the glass, hands are unknowingly shoved under a stranger’s boobs and someone’s crotch is rubbing against your hip, and we all just purse our lips tightly together and act as though this is perfectly acceptable behaviour first thing on a Monday morning. And you know that moment when the doors slide open, one person struggles off, tripping over someone’s work suitcase (why, people, WHY??) and about fifty-million eager, slightly sad-looking faces stare back at you from the platform as if to say, “Can’t you make room for a few more?” Well, that is what I envisage when I think about the 2012 London Olympics.
Just like it doesn’t make sense when those on the platform try to squeeze all 180lbs of themselves into a space large enough to occupy only a disgruntled Chihuahua, I don’t see the sense in inviting further herds of tourists into London to take up yet more dear space. And tourists are worse than Londoners. Not because Londoners exude a brilliance that everyone else lacks (which we kinda do – c’mon now, people), but because they don’t know where they’re going. Just like when I go to a new place, I have to stop every five yards and look for a sign, or retrace my steps on a map, or spend five minutes trying to gather the courage to go up to someone who looks nice enough that they won’t stab me to say, “Excuse me? Er... how do you get to Burger King from here?” When Londoners set out on a journey first thing on a Monday morning, usually, they know where they’re going. They know that the doors open on the left, they need to take a left when they get off, exit the platform through the middle doors, ascend two flights of escalators (not walking, but running), take the second right once they reach the top, and the exact moment at which they should be taking their Oyster card out of their pocket, because of course if you don’t have it out in time, you’ll be the idiot standing uselessly at the ticket barriers, thoughts of “OHSHIT OHSHIT OHSHIT I CAN’T FIND IT!” flashing like an emergency alarm through your brain, while everyone behind you huffs and puffs and secretly wants to punch you in the back of the head for slowing them down. It is only because Londoners are so efficient and are mostly able to prevent occasions such as these do we manage to not murder one another every single morning. How will all the tourists comprehend this? They only care about the flying javelins they’re about to see; the mere thought that someone might need to be at work by 9 o’clock or else they get a bollocking from their boss doesn’t even cross their mind.
The other issue is, of course, that Team GB will no doubt disappoint. No offence to those taking part, but the very fact that we are hosting the Olympics next year is going to seep you dudes in more expectation than is probably sane. I mean, let’s face it: the only Olympic sport this country has ever done well in is the Pub Crawl. And if it’s not our sportspeople who will disappoint, it will be our weather. You can almost see the 100m sprinters tearing across the track holding folded-in umbrellas... just in case it rains.
I am not looking forward to the 2012 Olympics. Sure, it will bring in more money, but you’d be a fool to think that any of us will see any of it.
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