LETTER FROM LONDON:The smoothness with which these Games have been running is surprising everyone, writes KEITH DUGGAN
THERE CAN be no doubt at this stage that everything and everyone at these London Olympics is juiced. The performances are too sleek and too fast. The times are unbelievable.
All week long, the evidence has been mounting. On the way out to the stadium the other morning, a large crowd had gathered in a greasy spoon that has probably been in existence since the heyday of East India dock – without once changing its silverware. Among the customers that morning was an American track and field man: you could tell this because of the overwhelming good cheer and optimism with which he ordered his breakfast in the crowded, dingy cafe and because he wore a track suit with huge USA lettering. He wanted his eggs done “over easy”.
“You want em’ fried, gov?” said guy taking his order clarified.
“Fried! Yeah! Great!” the American enthused.
“Two minutes, gov.”
And almost on automatic, the coach whipped out his stop-watch and began timing. The first egg was split in 26.5 seconds, the next was on the pan just 13.2 seconds later. Sausages, bacon and trimmings were already on the plate. The eggs were added and presented to the coach along with a steaming mug of tea and a basket of toast in 1.53.46 minutes.
“That’s incredible,” beamed the athletics man. And it was. Stuff like this has been happening in London since the Games began.
Take Boris Johnson. The mayor has been bested only by Michael Phelps as the most high profile figure of these Olympics. The toff to beat all toffs is popping up everywhere, including on a zipwire at Victoria Park.
On Thursday, Boris showed up at Stratford railway station. In what has been a brilliant wheeze for the Tories, he followed protocol and took the Tube, travelling amidst the great unwashed.
He’s an oddity, is Johnson; the class clown in the poshest school imaginable who has somehow become leader of the city. And they adore him. He was swamped like a rock star as soon as he appeared.
But there was something different about him. For years, Boris, has proudly borne the look of a man who is utterly incapable of passing up the offer of a suet pudding. But since the Olympics, he has begun to acquire a more sinewy demeanour. All of this bouncing about London watching the world’s elite athletes is taking its toll. There was a lightness to his step as he moved through the crowd. And the way he bounded the exit steps of the stadium was disconcerting. He left the Bobbies who shadow him in his wake.
You might accept it if it was Haile Gebrselassie taking three steps at a time. But Boris? He covered that stairway in a time which could be described as disturbing and frankly unbelievable.
But then, so much about these Olympics have been a bit unbelievable. They are running with a smoothness that is bewildering the Englanders because they have nothing to give out about. Instead, they are feeding off it.
This new elixir is not confined to humans. Machines are getting in on the act. For months, rumours of the transport system grinding to a halt overshadowed the Games. After all, this was London, where the transport system has for decades been the bane of life. For the past week, the announcers have been breezily announcing that all lines – even the much maligned winding tunnels of the Northern Line are “running a good service”. No delays. No muffled announcements confirming what the thousands of people gathered on the sweltering platforms at Covent Garden or Oxford Circus already know: that there has been a delay. No, everything has been running like clockwork.
The suited civil servants who gather at Waterloo or Westminster every evening for the 5.48 out to Pinner or Harrow are stunned to find their regular carriage pulling up at precisely that time. You can see them checking their Rolexs dubiously, convinced that there is some trick involved.
And once on board, there are other subtle differences. Never before has London showcased its broad cast of nationalities so openly. Old habits on the Tube – the silence, faces hidden behind the Evening Standards – have been abandoned. The carriages are filled with people bearing flags and colours from around the world and it has changed the atmosphere in the rabbit warren of stations. People are smiling and laughing. The Bobbies are cracking jokes. Everywhere looks the same but feels difference.
Olympic fever has even seeped through the ancient walls of Westminster Abbey and St Paul’s Cathedral. The hopes and dreams of the Olympians are included in the hourly prayers and the guides whose lives normally consist of explaining the grislier chapters of Edwardian England find themselves caught up in conversations about the contemporary world.
For these Olympics, it is perfectly reasonable to stand on the flagstone grave of Oliver Cromwell and have a detailed chat about the fall of the Chinese badminton team.
The much maligned army presence at Olympic venues has been the other big surprise. This might be the best public relations exercise in the history of the British Army because their squaddies posted at the gates to Olympic venues and on the streets and railway stations have been putting on a charm offensive. They deal with logistics well and so fly through the bag searches with minimal fuss: they know what they are looking for in there. If they put them in charge of the catering, it would solve the long lines for the food stalls as well.
The Brits clearly adore these Games. Yes, they jammed out the stadium yesterday morning for the opening day of the track and field but they have also flocked to the BMX, the beach volleyball and other fringe events with equal enthusiasm. They say there has never been a better time to get tickets for a West End show or a table at a fashionable restaurant than over the last week. The hot spots are all deserted because people are off watching sports they never really heard of before these Olympics began.
Maybe it is a last hurrah. Grim headlines about Britain heading for a triple-dip recession have been pushed to the margins by characters like Phelps and Hoy and Federer. London has gone Olympics mad. Late last night, the District Line train carrying hundreds of happy Brits back in from Wimbledon emptied at Westminster. The tourists were still gathered beneath Big Ben, taking photographs. The famous clock face read 11pm on the button. For once, the rest of London seemed in perfect synchronicity with its most famous landmark. Everything and everyone is bang on and it is hard to believe the times.
Isn’t this England? Doesn’t it always ends in tears?
