Inspire A Generation

Tags

Ben Ainslie, BUPA, Dan Snow, dancing, Desperate Dan, Flavia Cacace, gold medal, husband, lottery, Tango, Vincent Simone

Tuesday

Sunny!

Desperate Times for Desperate Dan ran a headline, which had nothing to do with Dan Snow, but had everything to do with the strong man of The Dandy.  I was so relieved that our Dan and the lovely Lady Edwina were not suffering in these times of austerity, though I’m sure that Daddy, The Duke of Westminster, could always forward them a little loan by increasing his parking charges.  So, fear not, Dan, you can have as many cow pies as you wish and -goodness knows-you need to keep up your calorific intake, what with all that physical and mental activity that you indulge in.  I suppose you could have earned a little bit more by taking on the airspace security at the Olympics. There would have been savings to be made if we had foregone the Typhoons and helicopters and you could have shot down any terrorist planes with your pea- shooter.

The couple who have just won £148 million on the lottery say that they want to make a difference and repay past kindnesses, so maybe they could make a donation to D. C. Thomson of Dundee and keep the comic going to inspire future generations.

Postboxes all over the country are being painted gold, in honour of athletes who won medals of the same colour.  Sometimes the postal authorities are wrongly identifying the home towns and local fans are being arrested for getting out their Airfix enamels and gilding more appropriate receptacles.

This happened in Lymington, which was home to Ben Ainslie for a longer time than was his Cornish childhood base.  Reporters from South Today flocked around our quadruple winner and he received drawings from schoolchildren who had been coaxed out to scream their enthusiasm.  Again, Ben would have been advised not to appear with children, as when one little girl was asked if she had been watching him on television, she said, No! very firmly. The reporter turned to a little boy in the crowd and invited him to share what he had been feeling when he saw Ben sailing into the harbour and he replied very honestly, I don’t know.

Ben then terminated the in-depth analysis by saying, Thanks, guys.

There was a minor news item about heart patients in Buenos Aires being introduced to Tango.  I thought it was a reference to that crude advertisement for the fizzy orange drink where people were mugged and then told that they had been Tango-ed.  Then I realised that it was an introduction to dance exercise as cardiac rehab.  I know that if my husband was offered a few sessions with the fulsome Flavia through his BUPA membership, he’d be sliding down the razor blade of life in next to no time, allowing her to set fire to his tie or to raise welts like nobody else.  She and Vincent have a website where you can book yourself in for a few lessons, so maybe choosing hubby’s Christmas present won’t be so difficult.  I could always keep Vincent Simone of the curling eyebrow amused during the lesson and could pass him off as my festive gigolo.  We could practise a few moves to the Olympic video, Don’t Stop Me Now!  I could become his Flavia of the Month.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Something Sensational

Tags

Andy Murray, Boris Johnson, gold medal, London 2012, Lord Coe, Roger Federer, Stella McCartney, Team GB

Saturday

Three golds in less than an hour.  Good old Boris can challenge the gloomsters.

Apparently software enables computers to make decisions.  I wish I could have an algorithm which might help me to get out of bed.  I feel sure that some of my friends already have one that programmes them to make 10,000 purchases a day, so it isn’t so surprising that the Stock Market suffers similar compulsions.

The day ended brilliantly for Team GB after the doubles match with Andy and Laura. He will have to go to bed earlyish, I mused, as he is playing Federer tomorrow and then he has another doubles match.

I think Stella McCartney’s gear looks great, whether it is in the form of briefs or headbands.  Andy even has the sweatbands.  But who on earth designed those quasi-molar, Cyclops-eyed Wentworth and Mandeville creatures?  Probably the same weirdo who came up with Mr Blobby.

It was a day when things had come off – athletes’ shoes, or rowers’ seats.  Lord Coe said we had witnessed something sensational.

Gold Standard

Tags

Andy Murray, badminton, David Cameron, General Burnside, gold medal, Gore Vidal, Grayson Perry, installation, London 2012, Olympics, sideburns, stamps, tapestry, Wiggo

Wednesday, 2^nd August.

At last, a golden day for Britain, screamed the headlines.  The favourite words of Gore Vidal: I told you so! must have been uttered by many a coach.

We rowed and we rode.  Bradley admitted that he had been greedy, but no other colour than gold had interested him.  So much for it’s all about taking part!  The papers issued cut out hairy ginger adornments which people stuck to their babies at Hampton Court, unaware of the original General Burnside who had popularised them.  Maybe David Cameron could have sported a pair and might have pretended to be Gladstone, which might have affected party unity.

Brad speaks like Grayson Perry, I observed.  Maybe it had been Grayson in disguise all along and the whole summer had been some kind of cycling installation whose success was going to be woven into a tapestry by weavers in Flanders.  Bradley will, no doubt, have some connections there to aid the spoof, or woof.

The scull girlies were presented with a mock-up stamp which featured their success.  They presumably have to share it.

Well, what can they expect in times of austerity? The badminton baddies were disqualified.  No appeal. No parents’ meetings with all concerned. No re-sits.

Wondering

Tags

Anthony Gormley, Day of Judgement, eBay, gold medal, Jesus, London 2012, Mervyn King, Olympics, Robert Peston, Usain Bolt

Ah, what it is to live in the Isles of Wonder, I mused.  We are so lucky, except for those immigrant workers who are ripped off by rotten landlords in Newnham and squeezed into Supersheds, with no planning permission.  I hope that, post-Olympics, they will be offered  de-commissioned flats in the defunct Olympic village. At least those didn’t have missiles on their roofs.  Will those weapons be taken down afterwards? I wondered.  Maybe the security services are hoping that people will not notice if they leave them in situ, like Gormley rooftop sculptures, going rusty.

The Chinese seemed to be taking most of the gold medals at this juncture.  I wish that they would stop biting them in their photo sessions.  Maybe they think that they are chocolate Euros, like the ones in plastic net bags.  They might think that they are worthless and had better be eaten quickly before the sell by date, which no one, not even Mervyn King nor Robert Peston knows.  It is like the Day of Judgement, where even the Son does not know its precise date of arrival, though plenty of American evangelists claim that they have insider knowledge of the same.

I was devastated to read that the gold medals were actually silver with a thin gold coating.  After all that the athletes had renounced, they might have given them real gold.  Later I was outraged that The Bolt hadn’t been allowed to keep his relay baton.  He could have got a lot for that on eBay and, let’s face it, he has expenses, and clubbing in London isn’t cheap, especially when you have to treat a bevy of beach volleyballers.

The American coach looked as if he wanted to bite the Chinese girl who had suddenly shorn five seconds off her personal best.  The Chinese National Anthem was played and the victors lined up, dutifully mouthing every word, unlike Brits, who universally tend to get stuck on verse two of their own.