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:
…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