Busted bikes, mascots and lightning bolts

My bike's busted so this post will have to be photo free I’m afraid (well I could pinch a few from the web). Ok? Ok.

My 20 year old ‘Black Russian’ (I liked the name) bike which I bought from somebody down Brick Lane has seen me through 20 years of London traffic and saved me thousands of pounds. I shall give it a proper burial at our local Lewisham recycling dump...ha! ‘Recycling’ – get it? Oh never mind...

It’s been an interesting 2 weeks. Luckily I’ve managed to avoid the mayhem inflicted upon your average London commuter but haven’t avoided the wall to wall, stem to stern, east to west and north to south blanket coverage of the 30^th Olympiad. It’s like being bullied by one of those mascots. Have you seen them? Not exactly cuddly, not exactly cute and not exactly anything really. Sexless and with no sense of humour, which I'm sure isn't allowed as withering satire probably rubs one of the corporate sponsors up the wrong way.

See what I mean?

I’ve never seen anything like this Olympic razzle dazzle (and neither have the Brits it seems). The most pressing and urgent news story for most of this week (according to The Times) is just how do those beach volleyball people manage to not have the sand stick to their pert bottoms?

It’s the sort of attention given to the tense final stages of an England world cup football match (you know the ones where they get knocked out by those fluke penalty shootouts). Still it could be worse; it could be wall to wall coverage of a bunch of overweight pub people playing darts, drinking pints of lager and pretending that they are South East London’s greatest darts legends. They would be forever immortalised in The South London Press and praised in pubs across Eltham muttering into their pints of Stella. The thing about living in the UK is that it’s a constant bombardment of bad news 24 hours a day. Recession this, David Cameron that, Prince Philip making some rum comments, gloom and doom for our almighty financial services and it’s going to be a mix of warm (ish) sunshine and chilly showers all summer long.

I suppose the Olympics and all the wide eyed young athletes who have a completely innocent and untarnished view of life are bringing a sense of peace, hope and serenity to this sceptered (sceptical?) isle, this green and pleasant land, these Isles of wonder.

How can one people go from violent shopping trips in their local high street a year ago to cheering for the Brazilian beach volleyball team the next?

I’ve always said it’s something to do with the mystical leylines that have etched out the prehistoric boundaries of this country but maybe it is really more to do with the peculiar sense of social interaction the Brits have. Or perhaps it really is down to the fact that 'The Sun' does come out 7 days a week now. Hooray for Rupert Murdoch!

As the radio talk shows spout patriotic drivel about ‘Great’ Britain muddying the sporting achievements, there is an addictive human interest story which is at the core of the Olympics. These are kids for the most part and their personal tales of sacrifice, determination and commitment to something like synchronized swimming is splashed across the internet, TV, Radio and on huge screens set up in Hyde Park, Victoria Park and Greenwich. Better them than me I think.

Even a cynical old curmudgeon can get caught up with that Bolt blokes tom foolery and jolly japes after winning the 400 metre race the other night. Did you see it? Grabbing a camera and taking photos of the crowd...what a star...what a showman! Inspiring a generation indeed.

Speaking of inspiration...

With all this unfettered and energetic running and cycling and swimming and riding and sailing and leaping about and all this gold being won there is a downside.

I’ve actually quite enjoyed not having to put up with the usual parade of politicians and media personalities jockeying for position in the media as each frivolous news story gets an unfair amount of coverage. All the foul politicians and phoney attention seekers basking in the glow of an overactive digital media seemed to have taken a back seat almost for a whole week! Now of course with the cascade of medals being trumpeted by a biased media all the preening creeps have come out of the closet and are having their pictures taken with the golden Olympians. There’s David Cameron lounging in Number 10 with a ‘Team GB’ top on cheering for some sport I’m sure he used to play at Eton which I guess was croquet with liquid refreshment provided by Pimms – don’t cha know. Then there was Paul Weller posing with his old mate Bradley Wiggins, arms around each other all paly like. Maybe it was Weller’s naff haircut extending some friendly advice to Brad’s naff side-whiskers. Bradley has many fond childhood memories training on his tricycle at The Herne Hill Velodrome near where we live. I guess they will have to re-name it now. Somebody even managed to find Jimmy Page (with low alcohol beer in his hand) and Mick Jones (nothing stronger than a cup of tea these days, I hope) from somewhere and got them to pose with Jessica Ennis and Victoria Pedalton (oh do keep up!).

Even Morrissey got involved with the fantastic opportunity of some free publicity but he did push it a bit comparing the atmosphere with Nazi Germany in 1939. I mean maybe all those troops doing security will march off to annex Iceland or something having failed miserably in Iraq and Afghanistan. Is that what he means?

The gold medal winner for best publicity stunt though goes to our heroic mayor Boris Johnson all trussed up on a zip wire stranded 50 feet off the ground meekly asking for a ladder. He’s more buffoon than politician. A future Prime Minister!