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.
