Olympic Closing Ceremony
Sunday 24th August
Sunday 24th August
I am no connoisseur of Olympic ceremony history but as the last of the firework smoke above the Bird’s Nest diffused effortlessly into Beijing’s notorious air, London’s contribution hung around like a wet fart. The BBC voice described the eight minute London 2012 section as “fun”, “quirky”, “energetic, youthful and entertaining”, only the second of which was true. Nevertheless, David Beckham goalie-kicking a ball off an out-sized double-decker bus – which opened out more like the Batmobile than an English rose – felt sadly appropriate.
Beckham’s transitory fame was only the natural progression of a focus on iconic images. How do you match the Great Wall? A CGI of graffiti being sprayed. The video encompassed “our” architecture: Big Ben, the Gherkin, Tate Modern and the London Eye as well as the architecture of our lives: a zebra crossing, a black cab, cyclists and umbrellas. All of it would have been lost on the Chinese, Jun assures me. Some of it was lost on me. How can cyclists be ‘uniquely London’ in China? Didn’t Katie Melua sing that song years ago?
China organise choreography’s epitome. Some guys in Soho represent us through Jimmy Page and Leona Lewis singing “Whole lotta love”. Err, couldn’t they at least have persuaded Elton John to change a few lyrics (again) and plink-plonk “Olympic Torch in the Wind”? Finally, the dancers unveil a girl chosen by Blue Peter viewers (after the cat-naming scandal, I was forced to consider that this child may have been pre-chosen to reinforce the multicultural make-up of the choir). It felt like a big unfunny in-joke.
Perhaps I was just cynical because we’d had to witness Boris Johnson bumbling in with half his hands in his jacket pockets, slouching alongside a podium of stiff spines and better tucking-in. The traditional circus ditty – my ex-ringtone – troubles my grey matter associations whenever I see him. Probably not as painful as A Clockwork Orange, though. The clown preceded a strangely impotent flag and “our” national anthem. I karaoke the Pistols’ God Save The Queen but loathe the god & monarch trite.
Comforted by the commentator’s sketch of the Sydney eight minutes (see title), I was able to enjoy her qualification of London: “the coolest place on the planet, say the organisers”. Yet Londoners shown celebrating were doing so on the Mall, outside Buckingham Palace. We subjects with no written constitution and a royal family that we implore a deity to “save”, so cool. At least we have newspapers.
Beckham’s transitory fame was only the natural progression of a focus on iconic images. How do you match the Great Wall? A CGI of graffiti being sprayed. The video encompassed “our” architecture: Big Ben, the Gherkin, Tate Modern and the London Eye as well as the architecture of our lives: a zebra crossing, a black cab, cyclists and umbrellas. All of it would have been lost on the Chinese, Jun assures me. Some of it was lost on me. How can cyclists be ‘uniquely London’ in China? Didn’t Katie Melua sing that song years ago?
China organise choreography’s epitome. Some guys in Soho represent us through Jimmy Page and Leona Lewis singing “Whole lotta love”. Err, couldn’t they at least have persuaded Elton John to change a few lyrics (again) and plink-plonk “Olympic Torch in the Wind”? Finally, the dancers unveil a girl chosen by Blue Peter viewers (after the cat-naming scandal, I was forced to consider that this child may have been pre-chosen to reinforce the multicultural make-up of the choir). It felt like a big unfunny in-joke.
Perhaps I was just cynical because we’d had to witness Boris Johnson bumbling in with half his hands in his jacket pockets, slouching alongside a podium of stiff spines and better tucking-in. The traditional circus ditty – my ex-ringtone – troubles my grey matter associations whenever I see him. Probably not as painful as A Clockwork Orange, though. The clown preceded a strangely impotent flag and “our” national anthem. I karaoke the Pistols’ God Save The Queen but loathe the god & monarch trite.
Comforted by the commentator’s sketch of the Sydney eight minutes (see title), I was able to enjoy her qualification of London: “the coolest place on the planet, say the organisers”. Yet Londoners shown celebrating were doing so on the Mall, outside Buckingham Palace. We subjects with no written constitution and a royal family that we implore a deity to “save”, so cool. At least we have newspapers.
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