August

[Sweder]

Another outing on the bike, an early pre-work puff-fest to Blackcap.
I took Alice Cooper with me in the hope that his eclectic selections would drive me up those infernal slopes. As it happened he played Whole Lotta Love, reminding me of something so terrible I’d almost erased from my mind; the UK’s eight-minute segment at the Olympics closing ceremony.

I was always worried about how London would handle this moment in the global spotlight. This was our opportunity to showcase a myriad of talents, to call the world to London in 2012 where they can expect a multi-cultural festival of fun, funk and sporting excellence. Sadly this was hot on the splayed heels of the elected Mayor, the impressively-dressed Boris demonstrating the abject failure of his Aide de Camp to instruct him on the art of keeping one’s hands out of one’s pockets whilst in the public eye. I expected a kindly matron to slip alongside him to slap his wrist before gently leading him back to his seat.

Mrs S, curled into a foetal position on the couch and peeping through her fingers whilst cringing uncontrollably at the horrors unfolding on our screen, muttered ‘Oh dear God . . . it’s David Beckham on a carnival float’. I must say I was more worried about Jimmy Page, the impossible volume of sweat cascading off his tethered silver locks threatening to electrocute the finest rock guitarist in history live on television. Then I realised that a) he would probably go into cardiac arrest if he carried on, b) there were more qualified paramedics within a hundred yards of him than you could shake a stick at and c) the guitar probably wasn't plugged in anyway.

It all rather resembled an impressively large pimple bursting on the edge of an erupting volcano.
Nice to see we’re already managing expectations for 2012.