Holding a Torch for the Olympics

It’s the Olympics this summer. In London. Did you know?

I did. I saw it on TV and everything.

Despite this all-encompassing media blitz, I still wasn’t overly fussed about becoming a part of it. However, a funny thing happened the other day. I went to watch the torch run go through my area.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love sport and all that it entails; unimaginable tension, drama and whatnot, but I had ZERO interest in physically seeing this side of it.

I mean, this bloody torch has been whoring itself out to whoever will pay it attention; and on on a countrywide scale too. It’s like the worst kind of high school trick-ass-bitch (does anyone actually know what that means?). It’s been constantly craving attention from all and sundry, but never actually stopping long enough for you to knob it. Perpetually moving on to the next mug willing to shower it with cheers, waving flags and flashing camera bulbs.

I had seen this harlot’s progress around the shires, I’d seen the little old grannies sitting on their chairs with their tea and scones in the pissing rain, and I thought to myself, fuck off. Fuck right off. No way am I going to be lame enough to watch this performance of pointlessness.

However, I was working from home the other day. You know that phrase, getting paid to masturbate on the hour, every hour. The sun was shining, and it was literally at the end of my road. So I grabbed my camera and ventured out. To my surprise, I saw thousands of people milling around, chatting and laughing; strangers conversing like old friends. A Caribbean style carnival was in full swing, there was jerk chicken food stalls, and paella tents. Music was blaring… and then this massive roar went up.

I looked over and there it was… the torch. I saw it. Flickering and dancing in front of my eyes. Teasing me with each lick of its red-hot tongue, tantalising me with its devilish movements. It was at that point I knew I wanted it. Badly. And I think it wanted me. I strained my neck to catch a glimpse. I snapped as many photos as I could… but the inevitable happened. It just jogged on by. Leaving me heartbroken.

Crestfallen, I made the slow trudge back to my flat, pushing against the flow of the ‘we’ve never met until just now, but let’s be best friends’ gang, saddened at the events that had just unfolded. But with each melancholy step I took, a renewed sense of happiness rose from within. Confused, I walked on. It came again, but stronger. I began to understand.

This wasn’t about that fickle harlot… wantonly raising my hopes, only to dash them. It was about London. And the uniting power of a shared experience. I woke up this morning ambivalent to the coming weeks… I am now on eBay trying to secure tickets to the women’s freestyle wrestling qualifiers.

So London, regardless of your prior prejudices, open your mind and your heart to sharing this once in a lifetime extravaganza. I for one am a convert. C’mon Team GB and c’mon London!

Image by Jim Mead courtesy of Flickr