Ingredients
Two thousand volunteers
£27 million
One mad directorial genius
4oz self-deprecation
Mix all ingredients, stir, bake for 2 hours. Slowly stir in the cream of the world's athletes. Cook over the naked flame from two hundred tiny cauldrons.
Serves 80,000
* * *
Food was all that was missing. And bad teeth. From the moment it became clear that mad scientist Lord Danny of Trainspotting had decided to confront every possible joke about being British head-on by making it first and on our own terms, all that was missing was some British food. I would have gone for celeb power and given Jamie Oliver a giant kitchen set at one end of the stadium staffed with volunteers in Little Chef outfits and given him the length of the ceremony to prepare an affordable yet nutritionally-acceptable meal for the athletes to eat at the end. And some for Liz too, God knows she looked like she could have used a snack. Gordon Ramsay with a head-mic screaming obscenities would have made a nice change of pace from the Underworld medley while the athletes arrived, from time to time. But that's why they picked Sir Danny and not me. That and that Slumdog thing.
Under the juicy central premise, we were served a taster menu of entertainment. Highlights included:
A large British ham, over-cooked. His Brunel/Prospero was a sort of tribute act to his own rendition of the St Crispin's Day speech in Henry V. The more palatable Mark Rylance, who was forced to pull out after a family tragedy, was missed.
A dark sauce. From the scars of industrialison to the nightmares of small children, this ceremony was gloriously unafraid of darkening the mood. I've never seen anything so candid, it was the perfect response to Beijing's state-textbook Chinese history.
Crumpet. Crumpet dressed as nurses! Things are looking up!
[side note: you can't introduce hundreds of children to the theme tune from The Exorcist and not have one 360-degree head spin. Or was the unfulfilled promise of head spin more delicious? No. No. They should have seen it through.]
Chicken a la Queen. Strap a parachute on already, your majesty. You big wuss.
A runner Bean. And Rowan crushed it. Totally made the leap from 'much loved' to 'national treasure'. Welcome to the club, son. Take a seat next to The Venerable Baron Danny.
A sweet finish. From Captain Becks on his speedboat, through Steve Redgrave and the perfectly-judged handoff to the next generation, the flame of the games we were promised seven years ago in Singapore would be a gift to the younger generation was lit with perfection. From the moment I realised what was going to happen to the final ascent of the beautiful composite torch, my heart stopped. Martin Luther King once said that in life there are moments of unutterable fulfilment which cannot be completely explained by those symbols we call words. I'm not even going to try with this one.
* * *
My own opening recipe having been served around a large bottle of Amaretto, I confronted my first Olympic morning with some concern. However, a largely empty train has delivered me to the All England Lawn Tennis and Bowls Club, which today and for the next week is going All World. Let's do this.
Two thousand volunteers
£27 million
One mad directorial genius
4oz self-deprecation
Mix all ingredients, stir, bake for 2 hours. Slowly stir in the cream of the world's athletes. Cook over the naked flame from two hundred tiny cauldrons.
Serves 80,000
* * *
Food was all that was missing. And bad teeth. From the moment it became clear that mad scientist Lord Danny of Trainspotting had decided to confront every possible joke about being British head-on by making it first and on our own terms, all that was missing was some British food. I would have gone for celeb power and given Jamie Oliver a giant kitchen set at one end of the stadium staffed with volunteers in Little Chef outfits and given him the length of the ceremony to prepare an affordable yet nutritionally-acceptable meal for the athletes to eat at the end. And some for Liz too, God knows she looked like she could have used a snack. Gordon Ramsay with a head-mic screaming obscenities would have made a nice change of pace from the Underworld medley while the athletes arrived, from time to time. But that's why they picked Sir Danny and not me. That and that Slumdog thing.
Under the juicy central premise, we were served a taster menu of entertainment. Highlights included:
A large British ham, over-cooked. His Brunel/Prospero was a sort of tribute act to his own rendition of the St Crispin's Day speech in Henry V. The more palatable Mark Rylance, who was forced to pull out after a family tragedy, was missed.
A dark sauce. From the scars of industrialison to the nightmares of small children, this ceremony was gloriously unafraid of darkening the mood. I've never seen anything so candid, it was the perfect response to Beijing's state-textbook Chinese history.
Crumpet. Crumpet dressed as nurses! Things are looking up!
[side note: you can't introduce hundreds of children to the theme tune from The Exorcist and not have one 360-degree head spin. Or was the unfulfilled promise of head spin more delicious? No. No. They should have seen it through.]
Chicken a la Queen. Strap a parachute on already, your majesty. You big wuss.
A runner Bean. And Rowan crushed it. Totally made the leap from 'much loved' to 'national treasure'. Welcome to the club, son. Take a seat next to The Venerable Baron Danny.
A sweet finish. From Captain Becks on his speedboat, through Steve Redgrave and the perfectly-judged handoff to the next generation, the flame of the games we were promised seven years ago in Singapore would be a gift to the younger generation was lit with perfection. From the moment I realised what was going to happen to the final ascent of the beautiful composite torch, my heart stopped. Martin Luther King once said that in life there are moments of unutterable fulfilment which cannot be completely explained by those symbols we call words. I'm not even going to try with this one.
* * *
My own opening recipe having been served around a large bottle of Amaretto, I confronted my first Olympic morning with some concern. However, a largely empty train has delivered me to the All England Lawn Tennis and Bowls Club, which today and for the next week is going All World. Let's do this.
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