Gallic Gall

Tags

France, Olympics, Tom Daley

Monday

It rained all day.  The French are madly jealous of our success and are accusing us of having magic potions or supernatural wheels.  They whine that the judges were favourable to Tom Daley in giving him a second go when he was distracted by overexcited flash photographers. Their Hassan Hirt had been sent home over his hormone levels.  Just get over it.

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

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Closing Time

Tags

Annie Lennox, Boris Johnson, Brave New World, Darcey Bussell, David Cameron, Duchess of Cambridge, Eric Idle, Fatboy Slim, Grayson Perry, husband, London 2012, Lord Coe, Olympics, Poor Clares, Prince Harry, Prince William, Ray Davies, Russell Brand, The Queen, The Tempest, Trinity, Vivienne Westwood

The Tenth Sunday after Trinity

Clare of Assisi, Founder of the Minoresses (Poor Clares), 1253.

Maybe she would have something pertinent to say about the economy?

A scorcher with threatening thunder which disappeared after 2pm.

9pm saw my hubby and myself on our starter sofas, ready for action viewing.

A strangely nasal singer commenced the proceedings and a bad Churchill impression did not light my Olympic flame.  Same speech from The Tempest ; different hats.

Prince Harry appeared, instead of The Queen.  A solitary Duchess of Cambridge was there. Probably Wills was hovering overhead in a helicopter, watching in case his brother became too flirty with his wife.  If Harry got too fresh, Wills might have Kate sent to the Tower and could marry Pippa the following day.  They can be like that.

Batman came out of a Robin, but he was American, wasn’t  he?  What’s he got to do with it?

There was too much Our House, or One’s House, as someone joked at the Jubilee.  Probably the Royal version is One’s Hice.

The Ku Klux clan appeared to be cycling past, or was it a belated Semana Santa procession for the Spanish contingent?  No, it was The Pet Shop Boys.  One Direction  had the crowd singing the annoying Na-na-na-na refrain, while the whole of London seemed bent on street sweeping, which isn’t a bad idea.  Cameron wants 100% youth employment, so there’s your answer, Dave.

Ray Davies of The Kinks understood that the crowd were not completely thick and so gave them a variation to join in – namely, Sha-la-la-la, which made a change.  At least it was a catchy tune and distracted you from the bankers committing suicide by hurling themselves out of the Gherkin, which some would have found the best bit.

Russell Brand did his I am the Walrus act and I was glad that that awful mate of his, who only gets  him into trouble, wasn’t there, namely Mr Woss.  Grayson Perry, as Clare seemed to be with him, but, then again, it all happened so quickly that I might have been mistaken.

Fatboy Slim – I recognised the oxymoron, was at the centre of a huge octopus, while Jesse J gave everyone their big chance to sing La la la la confidently, because by now most of them knew the words.

The fashion parade was interesting but the commentators did not elaborate on the designers. I thought that Annie Lennox was probably in Vivienne Westwood for her number, but I failed to recognise the Dracula connection.

The pixels and lighting were stunning throughout. Eric Idle’s skating nuns would not have been out of place on Duddingston Loch .  Idle wasn’t shot out of the cannon, but Russell Brand, no, Russell Grant could have been. He had had plenty of practice on Strictly. Now that he has stopped dancing, he might have put on weight and got stuck, however. Sergei, the meerkat might have done it well, but he is anxious to maintain his dignity, so he might not have been too enthusiastic.

The rap did not appeal to me, even though the audience now had the opportunity to repeat, Ay-oh in response to Baby, let’s go.  I thought that was Teletubbie lingo.

Harry was getting a bit bored and started chewing, even just after the big We will rock you number.  I hoped that the Koreans  or Iranians wouldn’t get any ideas for a We will nuke you number.

The Greek flag was raised and that would have been a good moment for a whip-round, I felt.  The Mods on scooters could have whizzed around, collecting the bags.

From Greeks we fast-forwarded to Georgios Michael, who danced all over Damian’s sprayed flag, singing about Freedom and wearing a miniature For The Love of God skull on his belt buckle.  Again, that song title could have suggested a panty pad advertising jingle. Maybe he was out on bail or had a new release coming soon.  Wake me up before you go-go might have given the crowds a chance to vocalise the double syllables that they had been practising throughout the evening.

The London Eye becoming a baldacchino was a powerful symbol of immanence over a vacuum, I thought.  Maybe Zeus or Boris was meant to bless the gathering, but there was no sense of the divine that I could detect.  Lennon’s Imagine stated that there was no heaven nor hell, but only sky above us.  It was moving, but a profound sense of spiritual emptiness swept over me.  Were we meant to worship Man as Superman?  After the exposure of the clay feet of the Tiger Woods of this world, I could only feel limitation, not exaltation.

Past gods materialised in the shape of Mercury- Freddy, to be precise.  He raised the bar of audience participation by challenging the crowd to replicate fairly complex vowel sequences.  The figures on the screens made me think of Brave New World and the feelies.  Was I to become a pleb?

It must have been difficult to entertain everyone while 204 flags were being brought in and athletes were filling in the stripes, like painting by numbers.  Indian drums created tension and suspense, but the white box set building was a natural point for nipping off to the loo, but not if you were in the crowd, obviously.  I wondered about the facilities.  Basically, it was going on too long for anyone’s bladder capacity.  No wonder Philip had given it a miss.

Darcey Bussell’s Firebird section was dazzling, but then there were speeches and that French guy never seemed to smile, though he recognised that our hosting had been happy and glorious, to coin a phrase-not.  Coe smiled, but then he has a job lined up for the next few years, which is more than the marvellous volunteers probably have. To continue The Tempest references, we might echo Antonio, the usurping King of Milan:

Worthy Sebastian….

…methinks I see it in thy face,

What thou should’st be…

My strong imagination sees a crown

Dropping upon thy head..

I was relieved when the accident-prone Johnson managed to avoid setting himself alight, by furling his flag too close to the flames.  Maybe that was why the Duke of Cambridge was hovering overhead, ready to unleash gallons of water from on high.  Or was he on standby to douse Boris’ burning bush or to dampen Harry’s passion? Maybe he was trying to persuade his granny to jump.  Coe addressed Your Majesties, so he clearly expected them to drop in. Perhaps they had missed their cue.  As a fallback, the massed pipe bands could have played:

Oh ye cannae shove your granny oot a ‘copter-x2

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

Too Darn Hot

Tags

Beckhams, Ben Ainslie, Chichester Festival Theatre, coalition, Cole Porter, Danny Boyle, David Cameron, Kiss Me Kate, London 2012, metaphysical poetry, MItt Romney, Mo Farah, Nick Clegg, Nick Clegg rose garden, Olympics, Team GB, Tom Daley

Friday

27 degrees in London, but no gold medals for GB.

The synchronised swimming didn’t look that synchronised, nor was there a lot of swimming going on.  BMX I associate with kids.

More attractive was a trip to Chichester for Kiss Me Kate. When the chorus sang It’s  too Darn Hot! I concurred. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the general ideology, but the showmanship would have outshone a Danny Boyle spectacle any day.

Cole Porter was an absolute genius for lyrics and the cast’s diction was spot on. I’m always true to you darlin’- in my fashion might have been a coalition rendition for Nick Clegg to sing to Dave in the rose garden.

Day 15- 32 medals to be won- the most for any day thus far.

Flymo!

Romney has chosen his running mate, I see.  It sounds as if they are going to enter the 5,000 metres in Rio.

A medal for each of his twins – that was Mo’s aim and he achieved it. The Bolt was incredibly well-mannered about Birmingham and Brunel Universities and their hospitality. I hope that someone will sneak the relay baton for him.

Yes, there were batons and successful bantams.  There was bravery in the diving with various degrees of waxing evident. The hirsute level did not seem to hamper success.

I hope that the Beckham boys hadn’t indulged in flash photography when Daley was concentrating.  David was babysitting so Posh could get in some much-needed dress rehearsal. How many black outfits does she have to try on? He must get fed up with hearing her saying, I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want.  He probably mutters under his breath. What I really want is a bit of peace round here. Hence the quality time with the boys.

Ben Ainslie came on screen, looking rather knackered and he announced that he would be carrying the flag in the closing ceremony.  He may/ may not go to Rio. (Cue for a Winehouse song):

They wanted me to go to Rio, but I wouldn’t go-o-o.

He might make a second career as a pop star. He has the looks and we all know that you don’t need a voice.  Maybe he is going to settle down and have four kids- one for each medal.  I thought of all those Metaphysical poems where youthful good lookers were persuaded to have progeny to continue their genetic line.  Don’t waste it, Ben!

One more day to go.

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

Strictly Come Prancing

Tags

Ann Widdecombe, Brassica, Dan Snow, dressage, DVT, hanging baskets, husband, Kirstie Allsopp, Madonna, Moscow, NHS, OAP, Olympics, pelargonia, riot, St Kilda, teaching, Tiger Feet

Thursday

I went out with Brassica to buy some reduced pelargonia for my rotting hanging baskets. A crowd of orange lycra clad OAPs were showing off in the local garden centre café.  They should have been extras in the Opening Ceremony Tiger Feet number. They’d probably arrived by car and parked their bikes at the entrance for pure effect.  Nothing worse than the elderly behaving badly, I said to myself. They just propel themselves to the nearest sylvan cheapeatery to save on winter fuel in the coming seasons, which saves their annual allowance for luxuries such as ostentatious cycling equipment.  Mind you, they probably prevent DVT by squeezing themselves into such tight gear, so may be saving the taxpayer on NHS expenses.

I enjoyed the elegance of the Strictly Come Prancing dressage.  The winning horse, whose name was a bit like Viagra, could have shown Widdi a thing or two about dancing.  And she couldn’t have complained about the decency of what both horse and rider were wearing.

Madonna isn’t being very restrained in Moscow. Supposedly she had been asked there to sing.  A deputy minister told her to remove her cross and to put on some knickers, which wasn’t a bad idea.   She seemed to have inspired some girls in Leeds to lipstick the strapline: Moralising Slut over their boobs. It all seems rather adolescent and, as a teacher, I could have told them that the best thing to do with juvenile protest was to ignore it.

A poor athlete heard his leg snap during a race but carried on out of a misplaced sense of duty. I have always believed that one’s joints have a finite amount of wear or tread on them and so long ago I decided never to overstretch them.  My husband is a chief exponent of the theory too.

It is almost a year to the day since the London riots and several youths have been sent down for their part in the destruction. Dan Snow had been passing when some looters had run out of a shop, bearing trove.  Big Dan had tackled one and made a citizen’s arrest.  If it had been a female, I can guarantee that she wouldn’t have struggled too much. Dan could have taken wrongdoers to St Kilda for re-hab and could have introduced them to a fitness programme that included running up that chimney gully, or he could have made them harvest gannets, enduring fulmar spittle, as they abseiled down vertical cliffs.  Even worse, Kirstie Allsopp could have redesigned their psyches by forcing them to crotchet drag nets. Or Putin could have offered them judo training in Siberia.

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

Murray Mints Gold

Tags

Andy Murray, Ben Ainslie, Boris Johnson, David Cameron, James Naughtie, London 2012, Olympics, Pussy Riot, Roger Federer, Spice Girls, tennis

Sunday

Thunderstorms forecast.  Interesting for Ben Ainslie, I deliberated.

Twenty three medals up for grabs today.  Four weeks ago Andy was greetin’ on court.  I wondered who would be crying at the end of the day.  Would Federer treat Andy like a giant midge at a barbecue, ie/ like a harmless nuisance to be shooed away, or would he see him as a pesky wasp who might give him a fatal anaphylactic sting?

At 2pm I settled down on the sofa to start watching.  It was difficult as I had to keep flicking over to see Ben’s progress against the Great Dane.  Did that make Andy’s opponent a St Bernard?  I wouldn’t have minded being rescued from a crevasse by a brandy delivered on the rocks by the Swiss, to continue the canine and/or avalanche imagery.

Ainslie came in all flares blazing, having blocked the Dane’s wind.  That must have been painful for the Scandinavian.  I once read, in Suetonius perhaps, that Roman emperors, but can’t remember which one, had believed in never obstructing wind.  But Ben hadn’t been a Classicist, I remembered. Maybe Boris could give him a few lessons to round him off as a New Elizabethan.  Then James Naughtie could fit him into one of his programmes.

Hey, Andy was improving all the time and Roger was making unforced errors.  He won in three sets and Roger slunk off.  He looked as if he needed a brandy.  Andy even hugged a random child in the crowd.  Kim looked broody.

Meanwhile Jedburgh and parts of Pembrokeshire were being washed away, like Federer’s hopes.

The news is full of Pussy Riot.  Having worked in a girls’ school, I could recognise the concept.  One of the band members is called Squirrel and she was a spokespussy for the band. In a very un-Tuftylike pronouncement she accused Putin of being afraid of girls. Goodness knows how he will react to the re-formation of The Spice Girls. Probably pretty favourably, but he is only over on a flying visit to see the Judo and to get a lecture from Cameron, so he will probably miss their comeback.   David isn’t afraid of girls, I thought. He sends LOL texts to giant Squirrelly ones that you wouldn’t trust to teach your child the Highway Code, let alone the moral code.  But she is an endangered species now.

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

All Things Lavenderial

Tags

Andy Murray, Bradley Wiggins, Chlamydia, Clydeside, coffee, Glasgow, lavender, London 2012, Michael Phelps, Novak Djokovic, Olympics, Roger Federer, Sarah Montague’, Thought for the Day, Warren Buffet

You could sit in the sun, but there was a wind. I suggested to my friend Chlamydia that we should go to an alternative venue for those all-important coffees.

There is a barn with surrounding lavender fields which sells all things lavenderial – wreaths, scrubs, oils, essential and non-essential, cake, shortbread and lilac furbelows.  Actually they stock pink, white and tufted green plants as well and someone told me that they had supplied floral spikes for the Olympic bouquets.  They probably supply some for the local Hyacinth Bouquets too.  Chlamydia, or Clammie, as she prefers to be known, caught them out, though, by asking for lavender which suited a north-facing position.  It was worthy of Gardeners’ Question Time from Sparsholt College.  Of course, she knew the answer and she also knew that it was only available on the Isle of Wight, so there!

Then I quizzed them as to whether the lavender in the shortbread was definitely of the edible variety.  I was a little nervous since they hadn’t known the answer to the north-facing question.

After a cyclist had been run over by a bus containing the media, Wiggins had lent his support to the cause of compelling cyclists to wear helmets.  Some smart arse had objected and recommended that more people should simply get on their bikes and go onto the roads and there would be safety in numbers.  I could only think of huge flocks of Canada geese, where the outriders were picked off by preying predators, yet a percentage made it through to sunnier climes, or to more wintry ones, depending on the birds in question. We are supposed to be worth more to God than the fall of a sparrow, I pondered.  I had heard that assurance on Thought for the Day.  I thought that more academics should listen in, if they weren’t too exasperated with Sarah Montague in the rest of the programme. They might learn something.

Andy eliminated Djokovic in a very short time and then actually smiled.  Roger, looking very fetching in the colours of his country’s flag, played the longest Olympic tennis semi-final ever, against a very smart Argentinian.  When Roger nipped off for a comfort break, I myself was relieved that the Argy guy did not unfurl a banner about the liberation of the Malvinas, though that was the second publicity opportunity that they had missed.

I was disappointed in Roger’s wife, however.  She was wearing a baseball cap- and I remembered what that had done to William Hague’s credibility- and she was chewing, as if she was Alex Ferguson. My granny had always told me off for chewing in public though she had come from Clydeside.  So, I shuddered to think what part of Glasgow Alex had come from.  At any rate, cud regurgitation was not a cool look and I felt it was unworthy of the consort of the glacial elegance of Federer.

At a crucial match point a baby had started yelling and I had felt that stab of maternal anxiety that can ruin a day out or an evening meal for adults.  I was glad when it was silenced- perhaps by an usher asking if it had its own ticket, or was merely related to a ball boy or girl.  Just as well it hadn’t squawked at Andy’s match, or his mum might have dealt with it very efficiently off camera- see Scottish play.

I watched the women’s ten thousand metres race and found it amusing to see the four Africans overtake the others who were visually ahead, but who were in lap arrears.  They had to avoid a big Polish(?) guy who had chucked a cannonball an amazing distance.  He had the bad manners to run across their track.  Had he tripped they would have had to hurdle over him, like negotiating some kind of beached whale.  Then it was the turn of pregnant wives and excited children to swarm over the track.  It was getting like the rush hour.

On the radio I had heard someone quoting Warren Buffet, who commented that when the tide recedes you can see those who are swimming naked. I wondered if there was a wave machine in the Olympic pool.  It would be quite interesting to flick a switch.  However, they all seemed to favour those lycra long johns – even Michael Phelps – pity.

Princess Syndrome

Tags

Andy Murray, Ben Ainslie, Brassica, kids, Lynne Truss, Olympics, Suttonford, teaching, Victoria Pendleton

On looking in the mirror, parse that Lynne Truss, I spotted a roll of flab like a swimming lane demarcator. However, the minute I left the house to exercise, I was caught in a shower.  I met my friend and we sprinted up to Costamuchamoulah for a very skinny latte with surface-sprinkled coffee granules, which might have been 24 carat gold dust, judging by the price, and we practised the high jump by leaping onto high bar stools.  Lots of toddlers were running around wearing medals which they probably had won for screaming. I knew what I would like to have given them.

I was relieved when they were carried into 4x4s which had windscreens bearing the legend:  Keep your Distance!  World class mini-athletes on board.  Personally I always have to stifle the urge to drive into the back of such vehicles, as if I am on the dodgems.  Anyway, they can rest easy.  I would definitely obey the injunction.

I told my friend, Brassica, about a study that I had heard being discussed which showed that if you over-praised kids for scribbling and framed their every effort and gave them the mini-equivalent of a Turner Prize, in the form of a Kinder egg every time they covered the wallpaper with wax crayon , you would destroy their ability to discern what was truly laudable and what was, frankly, average.  I complained about all the yummy mummies who had confided to me that their children were in the running for the Nobel Prize for Literature, simply because at prep school they had written little sagas about flopsy bunnies. Once serious issues had to be studied at secondary school, the poor little mites were having nightmares because a fictional puppy keeled over.  If I had agreed to censor all upsetting episodes from the classics on the syllabus, in order to protect their precious sensitivities, I would have had to present them with blank pages, simulating their parents’ tabulae rasa, or tabulas rasa- oh, whatever!

Andy’s mum would not have presented him with his Playstation, just because his racquet had made contact with the ball, when he was fourteen and three quarters.  On the other hand, she probably had not encouraged him to waste much time on books either. Or girlfriends.

We discussed whether Kate Middleton’s mum had had a windscreen sticker which announced: At least one princess on board. Why should anyone take more care when bumper-tailing and slamming on of brakes, consequently ejecting an embryonic celebrity from a gilded carrycot, than when tailgating a beaten up old banger with a sticker that reads: Disreputable old bag of a moaning mother-in-law on board?

Surely we are all equal in the sight of the gods?

With some annoying old biddies on board, though, you might invite an impact worthy of a meteoric crater the size of the Olympic stadium, so maybe better to play it safe if you carry such passengers.

Good old Ben Ainslie had voluntarily gone round a marker buoy again, when challenged, even though he knew he had been right, which shows that his parents hadn’t put any special stickers on their windscreens, or treated him as Prince Ben.

Victoria Pendleton accepted that she had made an overtaking mistake in the heat of the moment and she had not made a fuss, nor challenged the decision by whining that she had been momentarily distracted by a fit bloke in the velodrome. She said that there were good and bad days and she simply progressed to the next challenge.

Bully for her, I thought.  That is the true Olympic spirit.

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.

Aquatic Centred

Tags

Elizabeth Frink, husband, London 2012, Olympics

There was a thunderstorm mid-day, but my husband wouldn’t have noticed, as he was glued to all things aquatic at The Pringle or The Panty Pad as I couldn’t help thinking of it.

A line of weirdly-goggled figures emerged from a tented poolside, looking like Elizabeth Frink warrior heads, only listening to headphones to avoid receiving their applause.  Again I thought that was an example of Bad Manners. Also, having disapproved of Lady Steel, I was not going to admire the various tacky floral tattoos which decorated many of the torsos on display.

A fifteen year old girl won a heat and I was reminded of a twenty two year old swimmer who had commented on the young people coming through, which made her sound positively ancient.  I suppose that means that I am only fit for burial at sea.  I feel like one of those condemned to the Zimmer, not the Zil Lane in life.