An odd thing happened to me whilst watching the Olympic opening ceremony last week – I started feeling a strange sensation, like nothing I’d ever felt before.
Whilst a mind-boggling array of ever more bizarre images appeared on my screen, something was stirring, deep inside me. I didn’t think it was the antibiotics, either. Fantastical scenes of pastoral Britain, industrial sprawl and belching chimneys, Wallander in a big hat looking smug, the olde-worlde NHS, a weird multi-Mary Poppins scene (that’s one of my bucket list crossed off, anyway....), The legend that is Mike Oldfield performing Tubular Bells 274, James Bond and The Queen parachuting from a helicopter, LOTS of dancing, fireworks, flaming rings, a damn clever Olympic torch and David Beckham’s oddly fixed grin (to name just a few) assaulted my eyes, whilst some of the best music ever to come out of this country played joyfully in accompaniment.
And still the weird feeling grew slowly. Subtle Pink Floyd references causing it, perhaps? Nope. Bohemian Rhapsody getting a star spot? Hmm. Nope. Hearing ELO’s Mr Blue Sky whilst the athletes competed over who had the daftest costumes on? Definitely that lot with the wellies, but still no.
Maybe it was something else then. Confusion, perhaps. Yes, but that didn’t cover it. Puzzlement? Obviously – I’d love to have been in on the meeting where Danny Boyle said “and now the inventor of the internet appears in the middle of the dancing for no discernible reason!” Still didn’t explain the feeling though. Bafflement at why Paul McCartney now turns up for anything the Queen is at and plays “Hey Jude”? Well, of course. He should probably avoid state funerals, though. But that still didn’t explain the growing feeling that had now reached a hitherto unknown level, causing eye irritation and flushed cheeks.
And then it hit me – I knew what the strange sensation was. Pride. Shockingly, surprisingly, startlingly, it was pride. That our nation had come up with such a fantastic show, depicting so succinctly, beautifully and wittily what being British is all about. Even Mr Bean.
I hadn’t experienced this feeling for years. I naturally assumed it had died, slowly and painfully, as our language and culture become more Americanised, our gift to world culture is some shaven-headed, union-jack wearing, soccer ‘fans’ getting drunk in foreign climes and picking a fight, non-stop reality TV shows, Jordan (the ‘model’, not the F1 pundit)... I have a very long list...
But there it was. Pride. Even as the BBC continues to provide blanket coverage on a billion extra channels whilst forgetting that their News channel is allowed to show actual news. Watch more Olympics! Watch it! Until your eyes fall out!
Pride. Even whilst there are empty seats galore, but precious few medals.
It’s an odd sensation, but I hope I get time to get used to it, before it gets locked away again by the idiocy of day to day life, maybe forever.
Who’d have thought? I’m feeling slightly happy.
Have a, olympically, good weekend.
If you can.
This post first appeared in my 'Thank grumpy it's Friday' column in the North West Evening Mail on Friday 3rd August 2012. This is the unedited version - you can view the printed/online version here: "Ceremony caused strange sensation", was used as the title by the NWEM, and it received a serious edit this week - down from over 500 words to 391, and leaving only the Americanised reference, which makes me look like I just hate America and blame them for everything. Which isn't entirely true. Go on - go there and leave a comment. I'm starting to think I've stopped existing...
(Posted to the sound Of Marillion's "Anorak In The UK Live". Which is really rather brilliant.)
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