The truth is forthcoming even if justice isn't

The news from Israel that Rachel Corrie’s family will not be receiving any compensation from the Israeli government, after it was ruled that her death in 2003 was a ‘tragic accident’, can hardly be surprising, even if the Corrie family do find it ‘deeply troubling’.  The Israeli Defence Force is far and away the most popular organisation in the country and the fact that almost all Israeli citizens have served in it, make any criticism of it abhorrent to many in Israel.  The judge would have served in it and having decided that she was ‘defending terrorists’ (highly debatable given that she was standing in front of a house, unless one regards all Palestinians, indeed Arabs as a whole, as terrorists and their assets as fair game), it was a matter of simple process to rule that the bulldozer driver had not seen her when ploughing straight over her.  The judge’s conception of her defending those hostile to Israel was key to his decision, yet he was just the endpoint of a highly partisan military review that initially sought every angle to show that Corrie had not been killed by an Israeli.

Let us consider another example from the same operation.  A senior colonel in the IDF had a Palestinian suspect hauled into an empty home to question the detained man.  Suddenly, an overzealous bulldozer driver ploughed through the wall, killing the colonel and the Palestinian.  Of course, no tears would have been shed for the Palestinian, irrespective of his innocence, but I’m sure that the bulldozer driver would have been disciplined and compensation paid to the widow and the family.  This was also a ‘tragic accident’.

The trouble with having a siege mentality of many decades is that you are distrustful of the entire world and especially those countries closest to you.  A former Israeli president thought that racism was rife in the nation and this has only been heightened by an influx of over a million people from Eastern Europe and the former USSR, who have only tenuous connections to being Jewish (leading to the children of some daubing a synagogue with swastikas).  Even when Palestinian negotiators gave up the right of return and East Jerusalem, Foreign Minister Tzipi Livni rejected the terms, even though they gave Israel all that she had desired, something for which she was much mocked by her gleeful successor.  Yet, Israel is becoming more extreme and the hardline Likud-led coalition is one of the popular governments in Israel’s history, confounding expectations of a rapid demise.

It is this right-wing nationalism that rankles in Europe, both at large and in the Jewish diaspora (though not yet in the USA).  The ‘useful idiots’ that absolve Israel of doing wrong, ever, accusing (usually with libel) those who dare to speak out as either anti-semitic Gentiles or self-loathing Jews, are the true, if unconscious, anti-semites for they undermine Israeli credibility and over time this will just leave Israel more isolated and in turn it will become more prickly.  It is a downward spiral to which one cannot see an end and that is sad, because after centuries of anti-semitism, culminating in the first half of the twentieth century, the right of Israel to exist is unanswerable – it has to be.  Yet when injustices are perpetrated, they have to be open to criticism.  I fear that the Corrie family will find no greater succour in their appeal to Israel’s supreme court.

The most expensive chicken bones in the world

Recently, my cat, Puss-Puss exhibited some distinctly disturbing behaviour.  Crouching under bushes and other out-of-the-way locations, I recognised this as indicative of a cat preparing for death, with my late grandmother having experienced such matters as discovering one of her cats dead in an open cupboard upon returning from holiday.  That Puss-Puss, a stray but no more than nine years old, was doing this seemed unlikely, unless the situation was very demanding.

It is also what cats do when they are in severe pain and retreat from public to try and work through their problems.  This has been experienced when a previous cat of mine disappeared for a few days and when she returned, her cheek had exploded, the vet confirming a burst abcess.

So after Puss-Puss had not eaten his nut food for two to three days, I decided to take him to the vet for a check-up.  Doing blood tests just revealed he had a healthy liver and kidneys, so an x-ray went ahead.  This revealed that a large and sharp bone was stuck in his intestines.

Now, for years, we had been in the habit of feeding Puss-Puss the chicken bones left over from our meals as a treat.  He responded by cracking them up and devouring them with aplomb, much preferring them over his nuts.  However, we were informed that chicken bones were dangerous as they had a habit of splintering.

The vet, although professional seemed intent on racking up as big a bill as possible.  Recommending him to stay the night (for a charge of £40), we took him home, as it was probably better for him to be at home than a cattery.  We were also advised to bring him back for a secondary check-up (at a cost of £21).  In total, our outlay was £307, the upper limit of what we could afford outright with a baby an imminent addition to the family and the cost of returning to university looming.   The vet herself seemed keen to put Puss-Puss under the knife to remove the bone which would almost certainly have at least doubled the bill.

To get him to eat, we decided to buy gourmet food sachets, in the hope that he would pass out the offending item.  Luckily for him and for us, the next day he was much perked up, even chasing a squirrel (the squirrel escaped).  Now, he is much like his old self again.  But he have learnt an expensive lesson of never feeding him or other cats chicken bone leftovers again.

Man on the Moon

Neil Armstrong’s death a few days ago is not as seminal as when he set foot on the Moon, but is the moment when all his yesterdays will be all that now comprises him and when he definitely passes into history, to be the only man remembered by name by the masses a thousand years from now, as J.G. Ballard had it.

He has been subject to many conspiracy theories – that he never went to the Moon, that he messed up his opening words – that it was natural for him to retreat from public view, even moving town when an ingénue barber’s assistant starting gossiping about the visit of a famous client.  Unlike Ed ‘Buzz’ Aldrin, he never felt the need to compensate for a perceived inferiority, at being second, for he was first and nothing could take that away.

There will always be those who believe Apollo 11 and all subsequent Moon missions were filmed on a studio set (to the extent that the James Bond film Diamonds Are Forever referenced and played up to these musings).  The Soviets could hardly believe it either as their Moon capsule resembled some Jules Verne-steam powered contraption and that the USA, with its ideology of individualism and liberty, would risk the lives of its astronauts.  But with surely at least a thousand Eastern Bloc telescopes trained on the Moon, they must have been satisfied that the Americans had indeed reached the Moon, for they would never have given up the pursuit otherwise.

In today’s celebrity-obsessed age, it is refreshing to have someone worth more than all the others currently enjoying their 15 minutes of fame and yet chose to keep himself to himself.  And that is an attribute as powerful as setting foot on another terrestrial body – a testament to the particular human spirit of this man.

True pity

It really is a sad day that Hollywood-based director Tony Scott felt the need to take his own life yesterday, jumping off the bridge connecting Los Angeles to Long Island.  One commenter was upset that his death meant that there would be no more Tony Scott movies and that is a depressing matter but all the films he had left in him would not be worth his life being brought to an abrupt end.  Many will cite Top Gun as his signature work and that may well be the case but, for me, his name was truly elevated by True Romance.

His brother, Sir Ridley Scott, in the aftermath of shooting Kingdom of Heaven, said it was a disgrace that the medieval church and society ostracised suicide cases and refused to give them a decent burial.  Maybe he was aware of the dark hues and self-destructive urges inherent  within his brother as could be discerned in two of his early films, The Hunger and Revenge.  Both made without Jerry Bruckheimer, who reined in such mainstream off-putting slants when working as producer to Tony Scott’s director.

Maybe it is a Hollywood thing – in the land of eternal summer one can become so soft as to lose one’s mind.  Contrasts disappear and nothing seems worthwhile even if you have it all because you can have it all.  Ten years ago, Mel Gibson confessed he almost walked out of a window high up a building so disillusioned had he become with the superficiality of it all.  In Ivan’s XTC, no-one in the Hollywood elite can believe the agent has died of cancer, concluding it must be either suicide (or AIDS).  Typical of the attitude is that Scott drove to his final destination in a black Toyota Prius.  Fashion-conscious to the end but to what purpose and keen to save the world but unable to save themselves, it is an indictment of how one can be swallowed up in a sea of syrup until one drowns.

My predictions for the forthcoming Premier League Season

1. Manchester United

2. Manchester City

3. Chelsea

4. Arsenal

5. Tottenham Hotspur

6. Liverpool

7. Newcastle United

8. Aston Villa

9. Sunderland

10. Fulham

11. Everton

12. Queen’s Park Rangers

13. Stoke City

14. Norwich City

15. Wigan Athletic

16. Swansea City

17. West Ham United

18. West Bromwich Albion

19. Reading

20. Southampton



It is a mug’s game predicting a season from hundreds of games and millions of varaiables but Robin van Persie joining Manchester United (the destination Arsenal fans least desired) is a game changer. Alongside Wayne Rooney and with Nemanja Vidic returning to stiffen the defence, I can’t see the Premier League trophy going anywhere but Old Trafford. Manchester City will push them close but fall short. Chelsea will come back, whereupon Roman Abramovich will try again to tempt Pep Guardiola to Stamford Bridge. Arsenal are weakened but still have the wherewithal to finish in the top four – don’t bet on a trophy though. I see Andre Villas Boas’ tactics as too maverick and free-wheeling to deliver the necessary consistency. I see Brendan Rogers as bringing great progress to Liverpool – they surely can’t be as profligate as last season. Newcastle United will challenge the top four but though talented, the squad isn’t big enough. Alan Pardew has done as unexpected a job as Gordon Lee in the 1970s in finishing fifth but he won’t be decamping to a more lucrative post in the near future, lending greater stability for the club. Paul Lambert and Martin O’Neill will bring benefits to their clubs, while Fulham will punch above their weight and Everton will slip as penury in not replacing players sold will continue to be counter-balanced by David Moyes. Between 12th and 16th is pretty much Hobson’s Choice, a little shake of the kaleidoscope could see it all rearranged, but I see QPR as picking up under Mark Hughes and Norwich and Swansea suffering more under ‘second season syndrome’. Stoke will be solid but unspectacular and Wigan will again flirt with relegation but produce another Houdini act. ‘Big Sam’ Allardyce will play the percentages and get enough to (just) preserve West Ham in the top flight. West Brom are under Steve Clarke, a born no. 2, with average players; I think they will be this season’s surprise relegated team. Reading and Southampton did well in the Championship but I don’t think they have the players that will keep them up. Teams that finish in the Championship with more than 100 points (as Reading did in 2006) tend to stay up; for those in the eighties bracket, it is more dicey.

No, not this

To start with in this entry, locked-in syndrome is an affliction one would not wish on anyone you would know personally.  Very occasionally they recover, most die earlier than they would normally.  Tony Nicklinson and his (anonymous) fellow sufferer live in tortuous circumstances following their strokes and know not when they will be freed from their anguish.

But I am glad they have failed in their High Court challenge to assisted suicide.  This is not from any callous disregard for their wellbeing, but precedent.  They wanted doctors to end their lives early, because their loved ones are incapable of doing so.  This goes far further than most calling for the decriminalisation of assisted suicide – they want to stop the prosecution of those family or friends who do not prevent the death of those committing self-homicide.  This is contentious enough but Nicklinson and his fellow defendant want doctors to actively end their lives.

When any doctor enters the profession in the Western world, they swear the Hippocratic Oath, not the hypocritical oath.  They swear to uphold the preservation of life.  This is why there is controversy  in the USA that non-qualified medical staff oversee executions in prison jails.  So what if a doctor refuses to comply with assisted suicide?  Will they be struck off?  Will they themselves face prison?  Nicklinson doesn’t want to ‘inconvenience’ his wife.  Nor does he want to go to Dignitas in Switzerland.  This sounds more like a political crusade and a malign one at that.

Failing all else, he could construct a ‘mind palace’ like Hannibal Lector.  Okay, Nicklinnson is not on par with a cannablistic serial killer, but it may help him find some peace.

Olympic fever

I should relate my two bona fide Olympic experiences before they slip into a muddled miasma of recollection, cherished details forever cast to the wind.  The London Olympics may not be an once-in-a-lifetime experience for myself but I’ll never see them in the UK again before very old age.

The first event I attended in person was towards the end of the festival, a late night session on Thursday 9^th for a semi-final of women’s basketball.  Not the first event with which I would associate myself in the normal course of things, but I was determined to see a sport, if not in the Olympic Park, then close to it – the session was held in the O2, temporarily renamed the North Greenwich Arena – and these tickets were ones returned from national associations and corporate sponsors and released by LOCOG just after midnight via the ticketing website.  Naturally, given the clientele to whom they had been awarded, these tickets were not cheap, but no matter; I wasn’t going to pay astronomical prices but £125 seemed fair for a Category A seat and a chance to say ‘I was there’.  Steep, yes, it was towards the upper range of my limit and I baulked at other events where available tickets were £375 a pop.

I had no idea who was in the game but it started at 9 p.m. and so I arrived at what seemed a good time to collect my tickets at the box office at 8.10 p.m.  After coming through airport security-style checks, I searched for the end of the queue. And searched.  And searched.  It appeared never-ending and I asked a volunteer to point me in the right direction.  The tail was near the entrance but that was a false dawn.  At 8.20 p.m., one of the volunteer captains told an old lady just in front of me, who was queuing for ticket collection for an event the next day, that the line would take an hour to an hour and a half to disperse from that point in it (more were arriving behind me) and that she could wait if she wanted, but that it was better to come back the next day; she departed.  An Australian couple behind me were equally miffed at the time to enter, comparing how smooth going to the football had been a few days earlier.  The woman had her iPad and in the course of waiting, through striking up a bit of repartee, I found out that Usain Bolt had won the 200m sprint, the first person ever to defend it an Olympics.  One of the volunteers apologised and in a bit of banter with us said that at least it wasn’t raining.  A Spanish woman pleaded “don’t say that, please,” fearing the tempting of fate.  Edging closer to the box office, we could now see that while there were ten booths, only seven of them were open!  The queue would have been processed a lot quicker had all ten been open.  I would gladly have forsaken apologies if that had been the case.  Eventually, after my mini-Odyssey round the contours around one side of the North Greenwich Arena, I got my tickets and I got to my seat at 9.20 p.m., there were still others at least half an hour behind me in the line.

The game had opened up on the second quarter by then, with the French team ahead of the Russians by seven points.  It was a thorny question of who to support.  I didn’t really want to back a team who was behind, but, for my own sense of self-worth, I didn’t really want to be a glory-hunter either.  I arrived on the method to support the next team to score and as it happened that was the Russians.

My seat was well-upholstered and in a good position to observe the action with the Russians getting to a point or two of their opponents before the French peeled away again on a scoring run.  In the time-outs and between each quarter, there were numerous bouts of entertainment that those watching on TV might only glimpse with the cameras focused on the teams or pundits.   Dance troupes were to the fore and, in one time-out, ingeniously, a group of sweepers came to wipe the floor of marks and rubber with wide-rimmed dry mops, before dropping their equipment and bursting into a routine.  No-one expected that and it was well-received.  The ringside presenters also had some fun, getting two dads to dance for a basketball, a kissing session where a camera zoomed in on a couple in the audience and were exhorted to kiss – some were more forthcoming than others – and generally interviewing openly pro-French or pro-Russian fans – one Russian went absolutely crazy with a flag and his lunatic dancing and waving held the camera and the screen for a good minute and more.

During the third quarter, a couple joined myself and others in the suite (it was never full).  The fast-paced nature of the game made it exciting but the French were just far too strong for the Russians, running out 82-65 winners, to made it to their first ever Olympic women’s basketball final.  The fourth quarter concluded at about 10.40 p.m. but I had paid on my ticket to be there until 11 p.m. and so I took in the French celebrations, both in the team (watching the captain have an interview with French TV among other things) and the crowd, finally leaving at 10.55 p.m. with all bar one of the French team in the dressing room.  The crush outside was immense but I darted in gaps to try and advance my position, needing to get back to London Victoria by midnight.  At one, some started walking along a narrow ledge, after a distance forced to jump down because of two bobbies standing sentry there.  A French fan sang the Marseillaise loudly at them, to which one policeman growled to another “They weren’t doing that in 1940 when the Germans overran them.”

My second experience was on Saturday 11^th at Wembley stadium for the gold medal match between Brazil and Mexico.  I had booked this ticket back in May 2011, for the reasonable (given the occasion) sum of £65.  I went to London Bridge first of all, to take in the rings on Tower Bridge in person and then I got on the tube at Tower Hill and finally exited at Wembley Park to get the full vista of walking down Olympic way.  There was no allowance for stopping at all in the environs around the station, but despite the packed numbers, I had come an hour and twenty minutes beforehand so as not to be caught out again.

As I edged closer to the ground, the Latin American spirit of carnivals became more apparent with the wild outfits, one Brazilian fan in a gold-lame suit with outsize green spectacles and Elvis hair was among many sui generis delights.  The ticketing was far more efficient than at the North Greenwich Arena – while roughly a similar proportion of booths were open (75%), there were twenty booths in total, meaning the 15 open ones never had to contend with a vertiginous queue.  When the friendly box office man asked me for some photo id, I was thrown and concerned I wouldn’t get in, but along with my Visa cards and reciting certain information only I would know (such as ticket reference and when I booked it), I did get my hands on this priceless ticket.

I was high up (it was a Category D seat) but that just allowed me to absorb the vast panorama of the stadium in my first ever visit to it since it was rebuilt.  I nominally supported the Brazilians before a ball had been kicked but I was happy to applaud a football fiesta.  The Brazilians seemed more likely to show flair and ambition, while I had no previous affinity for perennial underachievers Mexico.

I would have to say that there were more Brazilians in the crowd than Mexicans but there a significant British presence too.  The boy of the father sitting next to me went and leaned over the balcony, coming back to say that he had spotted David Beckham.  With the match underway, one happy Mexican near me went into Speedy Gonzalez mode: “Vamos! Vamos! Arriba! Underley!”  The fun was added to by spontaneous Mexican waves (I say ‘spontaneous’ because the pitchside commentators tried to whip up the crowd similarly at half-time) – surely some bias involved here?  The Brazilian contingent were more than happy to indulge in this fond crowd get-together from the World Cup in Mexico in 1986.

The Mexican team wasted little time in letting their counterparts on the pitch that they had no come along just to make up the numbers, scoring within the first minute, Aribe Peralta curling it sweetly beyond the despairing Brazilian goalkeeper’s grasp.  Then they settled down to boss the game.  For half an hour the Brazilians barely had a sniff (reminding me of The Simpsons’ satire of World Cup ’94, with a staid final of Portugal against Mexico – the coincidence with today that the Brazilians are Portuguese-speakers I found to my own personal amusement), forcing the coach into a substitution after 31 minutes (always a bad sign) to bring on Hulk.  The Brazilians had a few half-chances thereafter but the Mexican defensive organisation was superb.  They were also helped by the Brazilian antipathy to crossing the ball into the box – many the time a Brazilian player made it to the byline and then the phobia kicked in and they were closed down by two defenders.  The Brazilian obsession with playing it through the middle was meat and drink to the Mexicans.

The pattern continued in the second half.  Brazil continued to screw balls wide of the net (the Mexican ‘keeper was barely tested in the 90 minutes).  Mexico even had the ball in the net, but though it was disallowed, it proved no wake-up call to the Brazilians.  On the 75th minute, Peralta claimed his second, with a bullet header from a free-kick near the corner flag.  I was delighted for the Mexicans because they truly deserved to win this match.  Peralta was taken off with four minutes of normal time remaining, much to his obvious reluctance given that he still had the chance to score the perfect hat-trick (left foot, right foot and header) yet the coach must have wanted him to receive a fulsome ovation.  Hulk scored in injury-time, provoking a manic two minutes in the search for an equaliser, but it was not to be.

Brazil had the superstars – Neymar had some exquisite tricks, for example – but Mexico had the team and were very impressive.  The medal ceremony involved the vanquishers of Team GB’s men’s football squad, with South Korea (or as the announcer said “Korea, Republic of”) claiming a bronze medal position.  The podium was quite massive to incorporate all three squads.  Despite the result, there a lot of bonhomie at the end, with the Mexican fan I had mentioned earlier, being playful with three Brazilians a couple of rows forward, even holding up a Brazil flag and chanting ‘Brasil’.  The spirit of the Olympics one might say.  I stayed for the Mexico squad’s lap of honour and waited until they had entirely left the pitch.  I knew the crowds outside would be massive whenever I left and I wanted to soak up as much of the experience as possible.

Closing Time

That’s it.  The XXXth Olympiad is over and the focus now switches to 2016 and Rio de Janeiro (have the Paraolympics been forgotten before they have even started?  To get true equality for those with disabilities, this skipping over will have to be addressed in the future).  But before London bade farewell to the Olympic flame, it would have a party to thrill the world.

That was the brief for the Closing Ceremony and whereas as Danny Boyle had the honour of co-ordinating the Opening Ceremony, the master of ceremonies for the closing event was Kim Gavin, impresario behind Take That’s comeback tour.  I feel, unquestionably, that Boyle was the greater showman and not just in conjuring the spectacular.

It started off so-so and the homages to The Italian Job and Only Fools And Horses would have been wasted on a global audience (I think it’s bad form if a host greets a guest with an injoke that the guest is not in on).  That Prince Harry was ‘allocated’ (there can be no better word) to stand in for The Queen was a bit of a snub.  Given that she sat through most of the Opening Ceremony as if someone had placed a large and particularly smelly turd in the royal box and no-one deigned to remove it, it behove her to at least to turn up for the seeing off.  Is this what her father did in 1948?  So if she and Phil weren’t going, where on Earth was Prince Charles and Prince William (Kate was in attendance)?  Did they fear a grand terrorist attack and were guaranteeing the succession (Wills can find a new bride if need be)?  It fell to the ‘spare heir’ (more like spare part) to officiate in his capacity as Henry, even though he doesn’t have a drop of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha/Mountbatten blood in him.  At least, he could adopt royal airs, appearing heartily bored throughout.

Redemption was at hand.  Timothy Spall popped out of St Stephen’s clocktower on the Damien Hirst-designed set, which was very clever in chronicling pieces of English literature in the form of newspaper headlines (cos they’re still contemporary, natch), all arranged to form the saltire and the cross of the Union Flag.  In his The King’s Speech Winston Churchill garb and holding the same cigar as Branagh’s Brunel, he declaimed the Isles of Wonder speech from the best seat in the house.

Then, in a depiction of rush hour (huh) on the M25, we had the pop entourage: Madness (the wife criticised Suggs, saying he couldn’t sing.  I chose to enjoy the nostalgia) representing Ska, The Pet Shop Boys representing electronica, a Blur tribute band representing Britpop and One Direction representing, er….  They are not, as Trevor Nelson said, “the biggest boy/man [?] band in the world.”  Not even in the UK.  The Wanted or JLS would have been a better fit.  Perhaps there were reasons for both to pull out and Direction Down were the only British boy band they could get at short notice.  Then as the athletes paraded in to the centre of the Olympic Stadium, the songs were repeated, as if they couldn’t fashion a medley out of other choice music (though I was correct in thinking Morrissey would veto any Smiths’ participation).

The nadir came with John Lennon’s Imagine.  The Olympics is supposed to be about inclusiveness and the anti-religious lyrics would have been an affront to many of the athletes, crowd and television audience, unless it was absurdist satire given that it also criticises countries and the athletes were herded in according to their national squads. It should have been Herman Cain singing his version for his Godfather pizza chain (an exception made for ambush advertising). It is quite an insidious song, a strident agenda set to a beautiful piano recital and a reasonable chorus and when it was being composed Pol Pot was implementing the underlying message.  This is not to say Lennon supported the Cambodian genocide but utopianism is dangerous.  The organisers could have had an instrumental (like the preceding bars for Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody), could have skipped to the inclusive third verse, indeed, could even have had Mike Oldfield’s Moonlight Shadow.  No and this is the primary reason why Ross is not as smart or cute as Boyle.  They really went to town on celebrating Lennon with a pyramid built for kids emblazoned with ‘imagine’ to sit on and a collage of his face was assembled.  The BBC compounded this by drearily repeating the song at the end of its coverage.  Was this commissioned by the same editor who cut out Anthony Joshua acclaiming God after winning the super-heavyweight boxing gold and scenes of marathon winner Steven Kiprotich crossing himself from all news bulletins?

Competing biases could have been a way out and, as George Michael was next up, a rendition of Faith (“you’ve gotta have faith”) would have been inspired.  Or having the King James’ Bible among the quoted works of literature in the newspaper format.  Maybe that’s a notch above Gavin’s intellect.  Michael wearing a crucifix necklace was undoubtedly a personal choice then wardrobe design.  The show got better from the moment the Lennon idolatry ended, though a bitter taste was left.

I enjoyed Fatboy Slim’s appearance (sadly The Housemartins were not on the bill; maybe their work is a bit too Christian-tinged) and Jessie J singing “It’s all about the money” hit the nail on the head regarding the IOC.  Tinie Tempah and Taio Cruz had a group song with Jessie J.  There was a second helping of Queen, plenty of The Beetles, a Who tribute from The Kaiser Chiefs and then later The Who themselves (or at least their surviving two members).  Eric Idle understood the stage he was on and cut out the irreligious verse when he led the singing of Always Look on the Bright Side of Life, demonstrating class.  A hodge-podge of David Bowie concluded with one of his more obscure songs to introduce the British fashion section.  Oasis were in the mix as Beady Eye, Liam Gallagher singing Wonderwall, a song penned by the brother to whom he no longer speaks.  Take That (minus Robbie) were wonderful, Gary Barlow very brave so soon after his and his wife’s baby was stillborn.  The fireworks were spectacular, as they should be. 

The handover and Rio’s performance was fun and frolicsome and left me salivating for the next Games.  I doubt they will celebrate the 1960s and 1970s as much as the British organisers, as they were under military dictatorship for most of those two decades.  The street sweeper at the start reminded me of the government death squads that ‘cleansed’ the city environs of street children ahead of the Rio Earth Summit of 1992.  Another piece of history that will be certainly overlooked.

As the ceremony exceeded three hours, there would be too much to recount and, admittedly, each is a personal vision of how Britain should be sold.  My wife was impressed by both Opening and Closing ceremonies in more or less equal measure.  I was far more exulted by the former, which did have an agenda but it was subtle and one all decent-thinking people could rally behind, as well as one of its aspects fulfilling a bid message – ‘The World In One City’.

Inception, perception or misconception?

Mitt Romney is so gaffe-prone in popular discourse that he appeared as such in a dream of mine yesterday (I had been reading about the Georgian portraitist George Romney a few hours earlier which may have informed my subconscious).  Nitts Romney (for like the scalp-loving parasite that infests child follicles, despite everything, he does prove resilient) wasn’t there at the start as far as I can remember and there was an element of transmogrification as a corridor with posters became a doctor’s surgery waiting room, which in turn became a political surgery space.  Tim Pawlenty, before Paul Ryan’s acceptance a possible VP running mate for Nitts, showed up, droning.  Then the Nittster arrived in all his teak manner, consigning Pawlenty to the sidelines and ultimately out of the narrative (how appropriate as things turned out).  Someone asked the Republican candidate about the tight polls between him and Barack Obama.  The Nittster intoned “the polls only matter on the day you become president,” suggestive that they would be the cherubs garlanding his feet as he ascended to The White House.  Then goofily, in a way reminiscent of Texan governor Rick Perry’s implosion in the primaries, he pulled a silly face as he remembered his political history – the spirit of Thomas Dewey, the failed Republican candidate of 1948 who was predicted to win, was abroad in the Nittster’s mind and he stammered, “Er, I mean, the polls only matter when you are president.”  It was not so much the words as the whole bumbling demeanour, like a stick of rock with incompetence stamped right through it and adding another layer of flip-flopping for the Etch-a-Sketch candidate.

Later, as events took me away from his person, a restaurant scene unfolded and someone went to the toilet to wash their hands.  As the turn tap came loose, it began gushing water everywhere and was impossible to shut off.  Looking at the pipes below the basin for a valve (none were there), a little plaque affixed to the wall there named the company who fitted it, the words standing out as ‘owned by Bain Capital’, the Nittster’s old vulture capitalist stamping ground.  Obviously, the investment group’s evisceration of companies had let the contract to a know-nothing yet cheap, new firm installing the tap.  Just figments of my imagination of course, yet it is indicative of the impression that the Nittster and his team give off to others.

Dead duck reprieving a moribund chamber

Charles Kennedy proved a shrewd judge again, when he predicted that House of Lords reform in this parliament was highly unlikely and so it has proved.  For sure, the Labour Party put tribalism above principle and opened up themselves to the charge of hypocrisy by voting for the tenets of Lords reform and then against a reasonable timetable for it, all to discomfit the Government preferring that than to remedying an embarrassment.

Yet Labour, all the same, could be seen as having been exceptionally shrewd.  The nastiest part of ‘the nasty party’ chose to sign the death warrant of their cherished boundary reform (which would have badly hurt Labour’s chances of winning the next election) by refusing to assent to making the upper house less of an anachronism.  If the Tory rebels and their right-wing partners in the media believe Lords reform is a constitutional indulgence that cannot be tolerated when trying to right the economy, the same applies to boundary reform of constituencies.

The Liberal Democrats have a sliver of moral justification rather than merely trying to limit the extent of the evisceration of their parliamentary party in 2015.  For the Coalition agreement did state ‘seeking consensus’ on Lords reform and the Tory rebels, emboldened by the right-wing newspapers and their ‘king across the water’ Boris Johnson, rejected a compromise out of hand.  They would have no truck with it instead of giving the veneer of being reasonable and attempting a half-hearted effort at agreement before voting against their own Government. 

Why?  Because they are Thatcherite fanatics, desiring a utopia that will never occur.  If the economy was motoring along instead of spluttering like a stalled gear change, burnishing the credentials of Team Cameron and Clegg, they would be roundly condemned as boondock bumpkins by opponents and acting precipitously by friendly sources.  Instead, they are lauded as heroes by the inbuilt right-wing majority in the press, as if they were Maquis striking against an oppressive, tyrannical regime.  They are fellow travellers of the Tea Party (people basing themselves on a mythical reading of history trying to institute a mythical future) and, depressingly, a lot of the Tory refuseniks are from the 2010 intake, meaning they will mouthing off their intemperate views in the Mother of Parliaments for a long time.  Interestingly, given the American Revolution of 1776, Tea Party activists of today should fight Tories of all hues tooth and nail.

Never call the Olympic hotline

The Olympics hotline is a sham. 10 minutes spread over three separate calls, where each time you have to wait a minute and a half before the automated voice informs you of all the terms and conditions and then you get a choice of either tickets or customer services .  It doesn’t matter which one you choose because, on either option, after being told there are ‘high call volumes’, it says ‘the other person has cleared’.  No!  That’s a complete swindle but it sums up the ticketing fiasco.  Given the website is a joke, there should be some telephony back-up.  At least with the tickets bit it cuts you off after 15 seconds, instead of keeping you holding on for another two minutes like customer services.  If you are told you can speak to someone that should be the least to expect.

I can understand high call volumes and don’t mind waiting but just to be cut off like that....  It is probably down to rubbish technology  incompetently applied and therefore unable to handle mass calls but this should have been foreseen.  Combined with the website, there have been NHS computer launches that have been more successful.

How do I express my fears about my purchased tickets having not arrived or try to buy new ones?  The automaton said that if the tickets you have bought have not arrived just go down to the box office two days before the event, show the card used to buy them and collect there and then.  Oh yeah, because the ‘box office’ is just a few minutes away down the road. Not!  And which ‘box office’?  Does it have to be at the specific venue or can any box office do the job?

The Olympic Games in London have been wonderful but the administration of the ticketing is woeful.

Why would British ships wish to dock in the refuge of the scoundrel anyway?

If anything encapsulates the Swiftian nature of Argentine politics, is the decision to pass a law no less barring ships flying the British flag from docking in Argentina’s busiest and most important ports.  And why is this to the fore, other than whipping up jingoism to distract from the dire economic situation?  Last year, two ships, thought to be British and headed to the Falklands in search of oil, docked in the port of La Plata, close to the city of Buenos Aires, sparking mass protests.  It was later revealed they were Norwegian vessels contracted by Argentina.  Ah, yes.
I still felt sorry for Juan Martin del Potro in his epic defeat to Roger Federer, the third set of the Olympic semi-final finishing 19-17.  I have perspective that this provocation is not of the people of the pampas but rather a government-fomented ploy and, despite the efforts of the childish Argentine president (the Titus Oates of the pampas?), should have nothing to with excellence in sport.

Pin in the calendar

We should all be prepared because it was about now that Roland Emmerich’s 2012 predicted that the near end of the world would be occurring, forcing the abandonment of the Olympics.  Then again, Emmerich is a confirmed Anglophobe if his films are anything to go by and so he would have liked nothing more than for such a scenario to interrupt the London festival. 

The gold medals are starting to roll in at last and Great Britain are rising up the medals table.  But, even in the worrisome days beforehand, those landing silver or bronze were sometimes met with outright disappointment that gold had still not arrived.  They should be lauded for an amazing achievement for to be the second or third best in the world in any age is beyond impressive.  Every medal should be cherished by those in this country with an interest in sport.