I’ve been getting increasingly desperate emails from London 2012 for some time, now. I applied for tickets to lots of events back when they were first released, and again when the second tier were made available. London 2012 spurned my advances. “No”, it said. “You’re not coming to the party I made you want to come to by inviting you to ask if you could come to it.”
I retired to lick my wounds. After all, we’ve all been knocked back by a hottie sometime, eh?
But then it got weird. London 2012 kept emailing me. “Come and line the streets while the torch passes,” it cooed. “Come and watch while I test the timers for the synchronised swimming.” It flaunts dressage in front of me. At this point it’s a question of time before it inserts Cat Juggling into the schedule of events and sends me a personal invitation to represent Britain in the event (I would win). I get the impression that London 2012, on some level, regrets its initial reaction to my shy advances. I can’t work out whether it’s throwing me a bone, or … no, it’s definitely throwing me a bone, isn’t it.
I am not the sort of girl you throw bones to! At, yes.
I have decided to have my own Olympic Gaymes, this year. All events can be participated in while holding a large glass of Pimm’s and laughing like a tit. My stadium looks like this:
Observe the fine curve of my track, designed especially for “Running the Gamut.” I already have a podium.
Other events will include: –
– Throwing A Strop
– Figuring Out What The Fuck The Cats are Doing
– Artistic Interpretation of Cloud Shapes
– Pretending To Swim Across The Lawn
– Making Me Tea
– Prancing About
– Strewing and Lolling
– A Drag Hunt. No not that sort of drag hunt. The sort where everyone wears wigs and heels.
– Making the Barbecue Do That Thing Where It Gets Hot
Yes. This is the only sane response to London 2012, with its half-hearted suit!
Anyway, I planned all this out in a fervour of excitement, and then realised that the truth is, I am pretty sad about the whole London 2012 thing. I tear up when footage of the torch comes on the telly. I mean, I did anyway, before the Olympics was coming to London. I find the event ridiculously touching. I shouldn’t. It’s so commercial and about big money and rubbish Old Boys clapping one another on the back and cutting deals. Yet … those competitors are real people who have worked ever so hard to excel at what they do. It’s difficult not to be impressed by the fug of hard work, athleticism and hope that rolls off them.
Ok, London 2012, I admit it. I wanted you so bad.