FTFV: The Olympics

I have been ill. It is as awesome as you think. Fortunately for everyone (all three of you) I have no desire to write an entire diatribe on how much it sucks to be ill. It is of my opinion - and please, stop me if I presume to much – that everyone knows how much it sucks to be ill. Currently I am a human who's sole purpose in being is to create snot in such copious quantities it makes my eyes bloodshot and my face hurt. We do not need elaborate further. Also, for those that were eating something then; so sorry. My bad.

So what we have here is another edited article from my Facebook rants. While now ageing ungainly, it's still in memory, so whee, let's go for it.

This article been edited slightly from the original (mainly corrections and removing personal references) but is nevertheless the same. It was originally written in August 2012.

The Olympics

So it's all over bar the Paralympics, but for the most part it's done now. The Summer Olympics are done and what better time than now to do a post-mortem while the corpse is still warm, and I thought for once it might be nice to write something that's not angry.

When we first won the hosting of the Olympics, my enthusiasm for the idea was somewhat... muted. Oh, I wasn't annoyed or dreading it, it's just that when I went to look for my fucks to give...

Hmmm... perhaps behind the sofa?

...oh look. There are none. Well. Just before the horizon, right on the left, there was the smallest of fucks that we took it from the French. Which is odd, considering as that's a sentiment derived purely from English delight over French failure and if you go back far enough my surname traces back to the French. French PIRATES mind. Though my great-great ancestors probably only plundered the finer wines and cheeses.

However, just over the horizon came a single fuck to give.

Let me taste your tears, Murray

I don't particularly like tennis, but I like Andy Murray. I like the fact he seems to genuinely dislike the media and dedicates a fair amount of time to not having anything to do with them, carrying post-match interviews in a pleasingly grumpy silence. Then Wimbledon came along and he did the incredible thing of not being immediately reverted to a Scot on losing, instead of the Brit he is when he was competing. Fuck Roger Federer. I swear Murray could have knifed him in the ribs mid-ceremony and no-one in the nation would have mentioned a thing and the award ceremony would of continued with Murray the victor over Federer's gasping protests that dude, I've been stabbed, I won, somebody arrest that prick. So. One single fuck to give. I wanted Murray to win the tennis, and that was it. I intended to let the Olympics pass me by, save for a hazy eye on the tennis when I could be arsed.

Then the opening ceremony happened. Once again, I honestly intended to miss it, which explains why I came in half way. Why was I intending to miss it? Well, we're bloody British, and I knew we'd do a shit job. I could see it in my mind's eye; tacky, cringe-worthy and sickening. Hell, I considered a merely 'bad' opening ceremony as a best case scenario. Bleh. I'll pass witnessing our humiliation in front of the world, thanks. But then over and over again, I was getting pop up after pop up saying that it was pretty good, actually, and weeeell, I had iPlayer, I could take a peek and turn it off if I needed.

Turns out I was full of crap.

(Incidentally, so sorry about spamming all your Facebook feeds. I've been meaning to get a Twitter as soon as I can think of a decent handle. It's been eight months now, I've nearly decided on the first letter. Edit: And now I have a Twitter! It's https://twitter.com/sarcasmisaverb and you should follow me because for some reason it matters to me now!)

I can't believe I missed as much as I did. By inattention, I actually missed the Queen and Bond parachuting in, the forging of the Olympic rings, some tremendous facts during the parade and speeches and an army of Mary Poppins taking down Giant Inflatable Voldemort.

A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, BITCH.

I got bored around the 'C's in the parade and tuned out, although not before getting added to my brother's blocked list, sickened by my attention to the Olympics. But it was good enough that I wanted to watch the whole thing, which I did later, and it was good, even when they wheeled McCartney out to wheeze out a song. But once again, my cynicism came to the fore, and aside from the passing interest in Murray's success, I was done.

Work endeavoured to intervene. Of course they showed BBC1 on the break time television. Didn't watch it. It was on, in the background, as I listened to my tech podcasts. A few days into the Olympics, where the lack of gold success was starting to make the media angsty, I was on break and the rowing was on. Podcasts in both ears, my eyes lazily wandered over to the television. Oh look, the Germans are in gold position, we're behind. Fucking awesome. The important thing about sports as we all know, is not the winning or losing, but not losing to the wrong people. And the Germans are those wrong people. As are the French. And Argentinians. And Americans. And the Australians. And the Dutch. Actually, I am curious to know what other countries believe the wrong people to lose to are, aside from the obvious, like South Korea knocking out the North Koreans in ping pong. Ouch.

So we're trailing behind, ho hum. That's us. We suck. And the predictable thing happened. We starting inching forwards. Inch by agonizing inch. And by the similar yet smaller measure, I started to care. Our first gold. Stolen from the Germans. Mmmmm. Delicious. Yes, yes, we're a foot ahead! Some blokes in a row boat are marginally ahead of some other blokes in a row boat from somewhere else in a sport I don't care about yet inexplicably I really care! Yes! YES! NO! Awww. We fucked up. Annnnnnnnd there we go. First to third. Just like a true Brit. Crapsicle.

From then on whenever it was on, I'd watch. Not 100% my-country-'tis-of-thee tub-thumping devotion, but I was interested nevertheless. Then Murray won, and I was happy. Yes, my emotional happiness was briefly tied to a sport. Very unlike me. I never saw us win any golds live, but I didn't re-watch our victories as without it being live, it didn't have the same impact, the uncertainty, the tension live did. So at the very last minute, I decided to watch something. I choose the boxing. I know a little about it, so I knew I would appreciate it more then coming into a sport cold. Okay, my entire experience up to this point was based off a boxing anime, so I was a little uncertain if punches didn't sound like a rusty blade scraped at high speed or a jet engine warming up, but it's something. Fortunately, Bantamweight Luke Campell was squaring off for the gold against John Joe Nevin of Ireland. Incidentally, not the wrong people for us to lose to. I actually wouldn't have minded if he won, as it felt like from Ireland's point of view, we were the wrong people to lose to. So I popped on the boxing and saw...

Uh. What?

Okay that wasn't the boxing. Funny story. Type in 'boxing' in at the time of the fight into iPlayer and the men's diving turned on, as it had boxing highlights. I missed the first two rounds for the men's diving. I mean, whatever, but it's not for me. Some people really like it. I had a friend who was there in the audience but I just can't figure out the appeal...

I have spent far too much time editing this image.

...oh. OH. Ooooooooooooh. Ah. She's a dirty woman. I know she dragged her husband along, I hope she at least let him go ogle the women's volleyball, considering those speedo's are seemingly designed to created a perv equilibrium between to two.

The final round was a bit of a disappointment. In atypical true Brit fashion, he did well for first two rounds, so took it easy in the final, dodging blows mostly with the occasional counter to liven it up. The most interesting part personally was that he didn't seem to coin he was the Olympic champion until mid-victory lap when his stunned face suddenly broke into a tearful terrified smile. Awwwww. But not very dramatic, so I opted for the next matches for British gold. The first being Welterweight Fred Evans vs. Serik Sapiyev of Kazakhstan.

It was one of the shittest things I have ever watched.

Fred Evans, 'Freddie' to his deluded fans, was a sack of crap. I honestly felt he knew going in he was getting at least a silver and that would be plenty enough to get him waste-deep in women, so bollocks the match, I'll just protect my face for nine minutes. Jesus, it was like they put a pacifist in the ring. For nine minutes he did nothing but defend, defend, defend. Excuse me, this is boxing. Throw. A. Goddamned. Punch. Just. Fucking. Once. TWAT HIM ONE. I DO NOT CARE HOW HARD, I DO NOT CARE HOW MANY TIMES, I DO NOT CARE IF NO ONE GETS THE RED DWARF REFERENCE, I DO NOT CARE IF IT INVOLVES FORCABLE NON-CONSENSUAL GENDER REASSIGNMENT SURGERY TWAT HIM ONE ONCE. Look, I know I'm not a boxing expert, but when I'm yelling the same thing at the screen as the coach is to the boxer something has gone horribly wrong. Third round comes, and it's not do or die, it's meander aimlessly waiting for time to tick down. Serik was on top form, and when he rose his arms in victory after the bell rang, nobody booed his impudence. Because it wasn't. He had won, we all knew it, and we cheered the far superior boxer. Not inspiring. I idly watched the next match, disappointed that Adilbek from Kazakhstan got silver as every other medal winner from that country at that point got gold, and he'd be the sad sack of the bunch. (Upon writing this I discovered Kazakhstan actually got two bronzes as well, so I feel a little better for him. Also, that country is a menace to spell.)

So it was with trepidation that I watched Super Heavyweight Anthony Joshua against Roberto Cammarelle of Italy. But that fight went swimmingly... in that he lost out in points the first two rounds. Joshua weaved, ducked and punched, but he got trapped in the corner in the first round and got whaled on like a kettled student by a stressed copper until he slipped out. Which was fitting, considering Cammarelle's day job is a cop.

'YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO BE STRUCK IN THE BACK OF THE HEAD WITHOUT PROVACATION, I HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN INNOOOOOOCENT!

But Joshua wasn't giving up. Unlike bloody Evans, he cared. He battled a desperate game, but came into the last round three points down.

Wait. Did I just say a Brit came into a fight in a disadvantaged position, like some form of underdog, yet determined to fight gamely to the end none the less?

Uhhhhhhhhhhhnnnnn.

Oh god it's like porn to me.

I'm going to get a cigarette.

So the final round starts. And Joshua fucking twats him one. Over and over again. Several times a flat footed rally happens and it's glorious. Cammaralle visibly stumbles a half step every other blow. But it's three points, and I'm hissing encouragement through my teeth and come on you mountain of a man twat him one again! But it's amateur boxing. If it was a professional boxing match, I have no doubt by at most the fifth round the Italian would be face up on the floor looking up at the lights. But there's only three rounds here. And it ends, both fighters raising arms in triumph. The scores are added up and it's a tie but there's this thing called a countback and I don't know what it is but then Joshua wins so it's clearly a brilliant thing!

It has something to do with median score or something. I'm celebrating, the crowd has gone wild, and oh god they just contested the results and the gold is in jeopardy. Predictably the crowd is displeased. I mean, I understand logically if I was Cammaralle I'd contest the hell out of the results. That Brit made up three fucking points? If anything we drew in that round, so I'm the damn winner! However it's a moot point as in reality he's a sore fucking loser is trying to steal our gold the utter bastard! I was honestly tense, sick with the idea we'd have another success snatched from us. But as we all know, the judge's decision held, and the gold was ours. Well, his. But, you know. Ours. We share glory from at home through the haze of crisps.

I even watched the closing ceremony... which quickly started going the direction I feared the opening would go, and One Direction (seriously?) later I tapped out. I'll probably watch it at a later point, with the ability to skip past the cringe-inducing parts. Hopefully it turns out well in the end.

(Edit: I didn't. Fuck One Direction with a rusty rake sideways.)

So now it's over; from a dearth of fucks to give, I have many fucks, of which are the giving nature, to be given to the Olympics. I'll miss it in truth, and that's a pleasant surprise. I'll miss the constant coverage, the fact that our papers were filled with great people, not just breasts and scandal. I mean, I'm sort of confused what's left to watch on television now. I mean, I sat down at break today, and what was on TV? Desperate Housewives re-runs. Awful people making awful life and relationship decisions. TV, what little I watch of it, is dead to me, and I'm back to my podcasts. I'll miss that the Daily Mail had to be nice to Mo Farah, hissing through blood-flecked teeth in hate-chocked breath that this black Muslim immigrant is a great British human being, when normally the 'Mail would dedicate pages upon pages of saying the complete opposite, focusing on damnation from only the first three words before the italics. And thank something this wasn't a fuck up. Our transport didn't shut down, nothing blew up, we won enough precious metals to make a serious run on Cash 4 Gold and our opening was great entertainment. Maybe I'm just a bandwagon jumper, but I'd like to think I'm a convert.

So bravo to the Olympics and every one involved, especially all those volunteers and I'll watch the Paralympics next as long as you promise that when it's all said and done, you'll return me to my usual hate filled self.