Publish And Be Damned

With Leveson about to report this week, and various papers starting to bleat that implementation of any recommendations will turn the UK into some sort of North Korean stasi-controlled state, and rumours that the PM will reject it anyway, here are some points to make:

1. This nonsense about that if these new rules came in, they would prevent reporting on a Jimmy Savile like situation. So that'll be why despite knowing it, not a single newspaper printed any stories whilst he was alive. But the BBC also knew about it, and didn't do anything either, so clearly it's their fault, obviously.

2. Speaking of television, it is tightly regulated, and as recent events have shown, if they do screw up, be it the BBC, ITV, Channel 4 or 5, Sky, CNN, QVC or The Ironing Channel, they are punished. As Sir Charlie Brooker said in 2008 (WARNING: Rude words ahead):

"If TV broadcast the kind of material you see in the press - if it paid women in lingerie to recount graphic celebrity fuck'n'tell stories, or shoved its cameras up the skirts of girls exiting taxis so viewers could wank to the sight of their knickers, or routinely broadcast grossly misleading and openly one-sided news reports designed to perpetuate fear and bigotry - if the box in the corner smeared that shit on its screen for 10 seconds a night, it'd generate a pile of complaints high enough to scrape the crust from the underside of Mars"

3. There is various whinging from the press that regulation will prevent stories like the MP's expenses scandals, Steven Lawrence's murderers being caught etc etc etc. No it won't. Those were examples of good investigative journalism and of course they will continue. What it is trying to prevent are the stories that the press know are outright lies.  The stories that are just blatantly intrusive. Case in point: The Mail last week ran a story with photos of Fiona Bruce walking her dog, with - SHOCK HORROR - no make up on. The whole tone of the story is "Blimey! Thought she was gorgeous, turns out it's all fake, and she's a dreadful old munter!", and saying that her appearance could be explained by saying "arguably she wasn't on air" ARGUABLY? I'm pretty damn sure that whilst she was walking her dog, she wasn't stopping passers by and telling them about the latest situation in Gaza. I mean, it's not as if every time say, Bruce Forsyth pops out to his local shop (which even he must do at some point), he's tap dancing down the street and then gives whoever serves him a cuddly toy.

4. As so magnificently illustrated on Have I Got News For You a few weeks ago, a stock in trade in certain parts of the press is the "all grown up" scenario, whereby (mostly) American teenage actresses and celebrities are pictured in certain ways with the accompanying stories calling attention over varying parts of their anatomy with a fair use of words "revealing" and "daring" and "lithe". Erm, in a word, ew. The Mail is of course the worst offender for this, but by no means the only one - there was of course the famous incident of the Daily Star slaughtering Chris Morris with regard to the paedophile episode of Brass Eye, when on the opposite page there was a picture of the 15 year old Charlotte Church (who was growing in the way 15 year old girls tend to do) with the headline "She's A Big Girl Now".

 And apart from anything else, think of this. Some of you have daughters. Some have been 14/15, some have that age to come, some may be that age now. As a parent, how would you feel if a picture of your daughter at that age was printed in a newspaper saying "My, she's not a little girl anymore" or similar so middle aged men can gawp at her? Exactly.

It's nothing new - we've gone from Jennifer Capriati to Martina Hingis to Charlotte Church to Emma Watson via all points inbetween in the last twenty years with regards to this sort of thing. Hopefully Leveson recommendations will tone this down at the very least. Furthermore, I fail to see how this can even be classified as news.

5a. Remember Chris Jefferies? The chap who was falsely accused of the Joanna Yates murder a couple of years ago? The chap who was then lambasted as "weird" and "nutty" because of his appearance and therefore was, as far as the press was concerned was clearly caught bang to rights and guilty as hell, thus basically turning his entire life upside down and perhaps putting him in danger from members of the public wanting to mete out what they consider to be justice because they believe what's been said? He's did an interview in The Guardian where he says that although he has received compensation he hasn't had so much as a letter of apology from any newspaper editor or journalist.

5b. Remember Lord McAlpine? The chap who was falsely accused of being a paedophile on Newsnight last month? The chap who was mistakenly identified by a victim as being responsible for quite horrible things, and therefore was, as far as the BBC and admittedly half of Twitter was concerned, was clearly clearly caught bang to rights and guilty as hell, thus basically turning his entire life upside down and perhaps putting him in danger from members of the public wanting to mete out what they consider to be justice because they believe what's been said? He understandably complained about what he had been through, received compensation from both the BBC and ITV, and consequently, the Director General had to resign after apologising profusely, and several newspapers are basically demanding that more heads should roll (again, several of which like Chris Patten have also apologised), and further sanctions placed on the BBC for false accusations being aired.

Nope. No difference there. At all. Anyone who says there is obviously want the press controlled like it was in the Stalinist era Soviet Union. So there.

6. If the recommendations are rejected, then what the hell was the point? The costs involved must be high, and it must be said that from what I've seen from a number of readers comments across the spectrum of newspapers, from The Independent to The Mail, these complaints that the press have are happily, not being bought by the public at large - the words "sour grapes" are abounding in quite a few comments.

Quite aside from anything else, the political fall out will be quite spectacular. Several Conservative ministers are already saying that the report should be rejected, but of course this is just so they can count on support from the press come election time. And I have no doubt that if this was five years ago, and Labour were in power, they'd be taking the same attitude. If nothing else, politicians like to save their own worthless hides.

Thursday could be an intriguing day. Expect several anti-Leveson stories in the press - interesting to note that the Murdoch papers to be fair seem to be adopting a more conciliatory tone, Private Eye reporting that as they are aware they are likely to get a bit of a kicking in the report, they're trying to mitigate as much as possible. Also likely to come in for a thorough shoeing is the editor of The Mail, Paul Dacre, who has responded by taking his paper to DEFCON 1 and printing an ELEVEN page "investigation" last weekend about somebody who has a small link to the Leveson team who nobody has heard of and consequently calling his suitability into question. Although they do get bonus points for the use of the phrase "Quasi-Masonic Nexus" which sounds like the title of a Rick Wakeman album.

I can only describe it as akin to the final scene of Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid, where hopelessly outnumbered, and in an absolute no win situation, Redford and Newman run out into a hail of gunfire from the Bolivian army, shooting their own guns as they go.

As I recall, that didn't end to well. Whether it will for Dacre and the rest of the British press, remains to be seen.

Aye Aye, That's Your Lot!

"English as tuppence, changing yet changeless as canal water, nestling in green nowhere, armoured and effete, bold flag-bearer, lotus-fed Miss Havishambling opsimath and eremite, feudal still, reactionary Rawlinson End.”

Sorry, but I've got to let off steam here. I'm a BIG supporter of the BBC - I waxed lyrical over the summer here about their simply magnificent Olympics coverage -  the prospect of it not existing and instead us having to make do with ITV clones fills me with dread. But they've really scored an own goal here over the Candyman. Danny Baker for those of you unaware, has just had his BBC London show axed, despite it winning numerous awards, and the man himself about to be inducted in the Radio Hall Of Fame.

I’ve been a big Baker fan for the last twenty plus years, and class him as probably our best radio broadcaster since the death of John Peel. To my mind, the only other radio broadcasters who come close to interacting with his audience and knowing what they want as well as him are probably Messrs Evans, Moyles, Wogan and Radcliffe, but Baker is of a different order.

 I could sit here and say that I read his stuff in the NME, but if you want the truth of the matter, my first exposure to him was via the early issues of Empire, the movie magazine in about 1989. He had a column for a few issues, and it was well written, knowledgeable, and most importantly funny.

In the intervening years, I’ve followed his career, through a myriad of radio stations, and of course that brief period circa 1994 when the BBC tried to turn him into David Letterman with a late night chat show, which, to coin a phrase said to the man himself by Max Wall, “died like a louse in a Russian’s beard”. The Radio Five Live and Talk Radio phone in shows with Danny Kelly were absolute genius, even to those who didn’t like football - Gordon from Scotland, who regailed the nation with tales of how his father made him a wooden bow tie to take with him when he went to watch (I think) Dundee United which was about 10 feet across; the carpenter who, with his mate, went round several grounds claiming that they were scouts from the Belgian club Standard Liege and were treated like visiting royalty; the exploits of Joanne the barmaid from an unnamed club in the Midlands (who eventually we all worked out was Leicester) who was, ahem, enjoying the company of several players and managers both past and present; and of course, the feigned ignorance of the score when Ipswich beat Norwich 5-0 back in 1998. Admittedly I may be a bit biased when it comes to that last one.

After that all ended in tears, he pitched up at Virgin Radio for a while, and whilst all this was going on, was doing most of the writing for TFI Friday during it’s probably most popular period of 1997-99.

Eventually in about 2002, he headed back to the BBC, and started hosting the breakfast show on BBC London, moving to the 3-5 slot some years later where he’s been ever since apart from having a year or so off after being diagnosed with cancer, which happily, he seems to have beaten. There was a brief flirtation with cyberspace in 2007 when The All Day Breakfast Show series of pod casts were launched, and clearly this was no two bit operation when on one of the first shows, Peter Kay, who at that point was at the zenith of his powers, pitched up. But that all came crashing down by the end of that year as Wippit, the company that provided the service, failed to keep their word, and after eight months of technical hitches downloading, and a grand total of zero pence being paid to Baker for his work, it was all over.

Now, I know I’m writing this in Norwich. And Norwich is 115 miles away from London, and no matter how far I lean out the window with an aerial, I’m not going to be able to pick BBC London up from here. I have to make do with Radio Norfolk, which to be fair, does what it’s supposed to, provide a local service. And I have to say I do enjoy listening to Treasure Quest (think Anneka Rice’s Treasure Hunt, but with a 4x4 instead of a helicopter, and a twenty square mile area of Norfolk instead of a whole region). But thanks to the wonders of the interweb, I’ve been able to obtain hundreds of hours of these shows. And they’re copper bottomed, pure spun gold . And I know I’m not alone in doing that.

Most shows over the last few years would begin with a slightly amended rendering of the quote at the top of the page, taken from Vivian Stanshall’s House at Rawlinson End. If a disc jockey starts his show by quoting a relatively obscure pop star from the 60’s who was dismissed in some quarters as a novelty act, you know you’re not going to be spending the next couple of hours listening to someone saying things like “I was out last night at the One Direction gig, it was brilliant.” The various stories that have come out over the years - feeling responsible for the death of Bob Marley, being notified of Marc Bolan’s death by his father (“Gorn! Dead! Planted!”), balancing a foam ceiling tile atop his head just as his mother walks into his bedroom amongst others - are clearly not your run of the mill stuff.

And then you have those who have joined him providing this service, the aforementioned Danny Kelly and Allis Moss in years gone by, to the top notch triumvirate these days of Tennessee’s own Baylen Leonard, former New Jersey resident and Mayor of Camden Amy Lamé, and the indescribable David Kuo (especially when he reads listeners emails), who all add to the whole shebang quite marvellously.

In a way, you could argue that until this morning, things were going quite well - the cancer (which, by horrible coincidence he announced to the world two years ago to the very day), seems to have gone, the first volume of his autobiography has just been released, and as said above, he was about to be honoured with a place in the Radio Hall of Fame.

And then earlier via Twitter, clearly fuming, he revealed that the axe had fallen.

It was assumed that this was as a result of cuts in the BBC which have been well publicised, but apparently it isn‘t. "We’re refreshing the schedule" was the explanation, and a more weaselly excuse you are unlikely to hear. I’m sorry but if you want to hear Olly Murs or Take That four times in an hour, then listen to Capital or Heart, because those stations are set up specifically to cater for that need. Yes, it is a local station, and the remit of local stations is to inform if anything happens locally, then this is done. There are regular travel, weather and news bulletins throughout the two hour show, and the main Drivetime news show follows directly afterwards. If anything major was to occur, then obviously they make way, and this has happened in the past.

The whole idea of the BBC is that it is able to broadcast things that those in the commercial sector do not have the cojones to do as they are ratings and financially driven. That's why things like 6 Music and BBC4 and the Asian Network exist. That’s why, even on BBC1, shows that even are aimed at a family audience but yet still have enough depth in the storyline to make you think (eg Doctor Who since it’s return) wouldn’t last five minutes on ITV which is all about getting you to gawp mindlessly at the screen most of the time, and let’s face it, we all do it at some point.

And yet when you have someone who is willing to go beyond the norm, to do something different, not to just sit there and spout crap about which Z-list nonentity is in the papers with their love life or just parrot whatever corporate bull that is fed to them, without a single, SINGLE feeling of individuality, joy, or creativity, what happens? What always happens, instead of the powers that be celebrating that individuality, they get shown the door, and some faceless bland dimwit gets parachuted in.

Though he wasn't my cup of tea, someone elsewhere has just mentioned Chris Moyles, and to a certain extent that's a good comparison - he wanted to do his own thing, something original, something away from the norm and over the years got grief from the suits at Radio 1. And now he's gone, and from what I understand, his replacement isn't tearing up any trees to say the least - going further back, you could mention Chris Morris, and even Kenny Everett. Admittedly Mark Radcliffe's stint on the Radio 1 Breakfast Show didn't work out, but that was more a case of the style of show not being suited to that time of day, and nowadays, his show with Stuart Maconie on 6 Music is a joy to behold.

So, what now for Baker? Suffice to say his exit from his show today was quite spectacular, and if it’s still on iPlayer when you read this, I heartily recommend you listen to it. Problem is, bridges were burnt quite comprehensively during the show - think DLT’s “Changes have been made here which go against my principles” rant turned up to 11. It was the radio equivalent of that episode of The Simpsons where Homer resigns from the nuclear plant and as he leaves decides to play Mr Burns’ head like a bongo (“I should be resisting this, but I’m paralysed with rage”) and throws him overboard before literally burning the bridge leading to the plant. Somehow, I can’t quite see him pitching up at that station again under the current regime.

His show on Radio Five Live apparently is still in place, but to be honest, I can’t see him doing it after today’s events, or indeed anywhere within the BBC until things calm down. In the commercial sector, it’s debateable where he goes - he could go and join Danny Kelly at TalkSport, but I feel that as everything from the weather forecast to the preview of a football match which is taking place in four days time is absolutely coated with sponsorship messages, it would again go against what he stands for in as such he is forced to toe a corporate line.

Absolute Radio was a possibility that crossed my mind, but the thing about the Baker shows is that he has free reign over his play lists, and seeing as Frank Skinner has apparently been heard bemoaning the fact on air that he only gets one free choice of song per hour on his show would seem to indicate that this wouldn’t be a good idea either.

I personally feel his best bet might be to try pod casting again. Despite the Wippit debacle, the ADBS was quite the success, and you only have to look over the Atlantic to see the wide range of people who in effect broadcast a radio show via this medium - amongst the most popular are people like Adam Corrolla, Joe Rogan, Doug Benson and Marc Marron - all of which produce shows that are often two or three hours in length - and they can basically do what the hell they like - but of course the problem is, as always financing such a thing.

In closing, I hope it’s not too long till Danny Baker is back on our radios - his spiritual home would seem to be either Radio 2 or 6 Music, but I think it’ll be a while, if ever, for him to turn up on either network. If you haven’t actually heard much of his stuff, trot along to www.internettreehouse.co.uk - you will find an absolute wealth of archived material there.

And then when you’ve done that, reflect on the muddle the BBC have got themselves into over a far more serious story that is big news at the moment and which need not detain us here, and ask yourselves, what on earth is going on?

All done. Finished. The End.

This time, it really is all over, isn’t it?

To be honest, this makes me feel like throwing a tantrum that an under five would be proud of. “Not fair! Want Games! Now! Now! Now!”, but I’m working on the basis that isn’t going to happen. But yet again the nation watched somewhat spellbound over the previous couple of weeks.

After the sheer utter lunacy of the Olympics, it was the Paralympics turn. What with the complete euphoria that greeted Mo and Jess and Vicki and Chris and Bradley and the Brownlees and etc etc etc still in evidence, tickets sold like the proverbial hot cakes and turned out to be the first ever sold out games.

And this time I was going to be part of it. I’d managed to obtain a ticket for the morning session of the athletics on Day 3, the first Saturday. “This’ll be good” I thought, but expected to be sitting in a half empty stadium seeing a load of heats and not a lot else, but it would be good just to say that I had been.

Oh, but I was wrong. Man alive, was I wrong.

Despite staggering across Matalan’s car park at 6am on a Saturday morning to catch the train, I was hopeful of a decent day - the train from Norwich was certainly busy for that time on a Saturday morning, but not exactly packed.

As it didn’t actually stop at Stratford, we sailed past the Olympic Park, which afforded me the first view of the place since I passed it en route to Cornwall eleven months previous. Obviously at that time, it was still a building site, and although even now all you could see was the stadium and the top half of the Orbit from the train, you got that feeling that this was a big deal.

Arrival at Liverpool Street necessitated a quick reverse trip eastbound on the Central Line, and as ever, the conditions on the train were, shall we say, cosy.  Arriving at Stratford, there was no danger whatsoever of not realising what direction you had to head in, as lurid pink signage seemed to be everywhere you looked.

A ten minute stroll later, it was the first encounter with a Gamesmaker. This cove sat on a chair that you would normally see at the end of the net at Wimbledon, difference being is that last time I looked, the umpires aren’t bellowing at you through a megaphone. As the throng that I was part of approached him, it was obvious he was trying to whip everybody up in a frenzy.

Now I, along with quite a few fellow citizens I’ll wager , am not one of those who normally respond well to the “Is everybody having FUN?!” style of exhortations, but I have to say, this chap really got things going.

“Who here is going to see the Athletics?” (Huge cheer)

“Who here is going to see the Cycling?” (Another huge cheer)

“Who here is going to see the Swimming?” (Another…you get the idea)

“Oh, you lot are brilliant, you’re the best crowd we’ve had here so far!” to which some wag a few feet behind me piped up “Oi! I was here yesterday!”

“Ho ho” we all said.

“Ha ha” said those brave G4S souls who actually went through with it and turned up.

“Guffaw!” said the chaps from the armed forces who were clearly having a whale of a time.

“Tee hee!” said the boys and girls from the Metropolitan Police whilst brandishing their Heckler and Koch semi-automatic rifles to the fore with their fingers not that far from the trigger,

Which proves the point, if nothing else that security here was absolutely watertight. If anyone was completely dumb enough to even muse on the possibility of even speculating about thinking to try ANYTHING, it would have been a very dumb move. Indeed.

I then found myself shepherded to the Box Office to pick up the Stadium ticket. Now I had seen various reports of  Box Office queues stretching from the Olympic Park to approximately somewhere just outside Grimsby (may be an exaggeration) so had steeled myself for the worst. And thought that if I was in the queue for an hour,  I’d have done well.

Ten minutes. That was all it took. And again, I expected the staff to be somewhat frazzled and at the end of their tether cooped up in a Portakabin whilst everything was going on, but I found myself served by a chirpy girl who managed to be wearing a hijab in the same lurid pink shade that all the signage was in. She laughed and joked with me before giving me the ticket (of course had to take the confirmation email and photographic ID, which meant me digging out my passport which expired in 2005 and has a picture of me looking like Adrian Mole, but that’s not for now), and you could see that they all seemed to be having a high old time in there.

From there it was onto the Security Zone. And basically it was airport style security. Walk through scanners and X-Ray Machines. Which is all very well and good if you’ve done it before. However, if you’re like me, and take a Dennis Bergkamp or BA Baracus view of flying, farce inevitably ensues.

“Oh, what? You need this? Righto. And the belt? OK, fair enough. Now do I take the bag through with me….?” The chap who “dealt” with me should be commended for his patience.

You then find yourself at the gate of the park. And straight ahead of you is the stadium. “Pshaw!” you say to yourself “It’s not that far away!” Oh yes it is. Because it’s just so damned big, it still takes you a good fifteen minutes to get to it. Passing underneath that large entry signage you’ve probably seen and with the Aquatics Centre to your left, you suddenly realise that you are here. Again, even a simple Flatlander like myself was able to find the particular entrance to the stadium that I needed.

A quick trip up a flight of steps and I found myself with a view that I had seen countless times in pictures, in tweets, in newspaper stories, on the television. Needed to head to Row 71 (out of 75), and, er, I was currently standing at Row 30.

Now, I freely admit, I may not be at the peak of physical fitness as I approach my thirty-tenth birthday next year. I may have to concede that I may not be ready for the Gymnastics team in 2016. Or 2020, 2024, 2028 to about 2060 inclusive for that matter. So as you can imagine, a spot of puffing and wheezing took place as I lumbered up the rather steep incline. However, the view was worth it at the end.

Directly above the 200m start (which would prove important later on as it turned out), and admittedly things could be a bit difficult to distinguish at the other end, but this was compensated by the flipping huge scoreboard in front of which the flame burned happily away. It was breathtaking.

Over the next half hour, the stadium filled up. And when I say filled up, I mean filled up. To the rafters. 80,000 people. That’s basically the population of Chester according to Wiki (so it must be true).

Things got underway. There were the odd things and touches that you’d noticed on the television at both events that became apparent when you were actually there. The crashing single note chord that came through the astonishingly good sound system to let you know that another event was starting. The officials over by the Shot Put and Club Throw making use of remote controlled Mini’s to fetch the equipment back to the throwing circle. (When I first got there they were actually having a little race on the track with them). Those absolutely enormous screens affixed to the floodlight pylons in various points. The cauldron itself.

The first real roars came in the heats of the Womens 100m (don’t ask me which category (it was one of the blind ones), but you’ll soon be able to look it up) as lo and behold, a world record was set. Now this was obviously something special. Yes, there are many more versions of the 100m in the Paralympics than the Olympics, but seeing a world record being set is still quite a big deal. And then enter stage left British runner Libby Clegg. Who then promptly set a new one. And of course, we went what I believe is colloquially termed, nuts.

Only then to see it broken again.

And then to see that one broken in turn. Again. Suffice to say four world records had been set in consecutive heats. Unheard of, and we’d probably seen more records broken in a shorter space of time than since Norris McWhirter was around.

Other heats followed, we had the chance to see the Brazilian Terezinha Guilhermina start her quest for Gold (you know her, ponytail, floral eye mask, perky to the point of lunacy), and whilst all this was going on, the various field events were still taking place and would result in a hat trick of bronzes for the British. One of the Long Jump events were taking place, and seemed to be dominated by a couple of blokes from Cuba.

As time wore on, we had a couple of medal ceremonies, and although I knew the Russian anthem with it’s militaristic pomp and grandeur, I found myself also paying respect to the anthem of Latvia, which was a first.

We then came to a Men’s 200m race. A FINAL if you please. As the competitors lined up beneath us, being introduced with music of such heroicness and derring-do I half expected Jack Sparrow to suddenly descend from the roof, I spotted there was a British fellow running. One Richard Whitehead Esquire. Now this chap was, with Ellie Simmonds and David Weir, one of the few Paralympians that I had heard of prior to August 29. However I was surprised to see him there as I seemed to recall that he was a Marathon runner.

As is well documented now, he couldn’t run the Marathon as it wasn’t available in his category, and so he dropped down to the next longest distance he could run, which was a huge drop down to the 200m. Like Oscar Pistorius, Whitehead ran on blades, having had both his lower legs amputated above the knee. Unlike Pistorius however, Whitehead did not have a knee joint to play with, and so his running style was unorthodox to say the least. Straight legged, almost John Cleese like with his right leg seeming to kick out at every stride.

The crowd settled down for the start, and after one false start, we had another go.

Then THIS happened….

There have been some moments in years of viewing Ipswich Town matches where it’s fair to say, I’ve completely lost the plot. The Play Off Semi Final win against Bolton in 2000 for example, where Jim Magilton of all people scored a hat trick to send us to Wembley. The Simod Cup (look it up) match against Norwich when a Simon Milton strike three minutes from the end of extra time sent Portman Road into ecstasy.

Then there have been other times in other sports: Lewis Hamilton’s title win for example. England winning the Ashes in 2005 and the Rugby World Cup in 2003. Even when Aguero scored THAT goal for Manchester City (who I have had no affinity for before or probably ever will again) in May, I whooped and hollered like a dervish.

What I’m trying to say is that nothing, NOTHING can compare to being in the Olympic Stadium as Whitehead crossed the line. Ear splitting roar I think it’s safe to say. Every single hair on back of neck standing upright. Complete strangers giving each other high fives and clapping each other on the back. Cries of “Yes! You f***ing beauty!”.

Remember the Road Runner cartoon where Wile E Coyote bought some leg strengthening pills which gave him thighs like those sported by Chris Hoy? He downs the pills (made by Acme, natch) and starts to run. Slowly at first, but with attendant sound effects of jet turbines and rockets firing his legs become a blur, and his speed becomes astronomical, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. That is how I can best describe Whitehead’s performance in that race. Although admittedly he didn’t then run off a cliff.

Look at the video of the race again. Both the American and South African runners seem to think “Ha! This is between us!” as they enter the final straight, and then are thinking the proverbial “WTF was that?!” as a blue and white blur hurtles pass them.

So, anyway, we are all going completely off our heads, Whitehead himself is prancing around in front of us clad in the flag, and David Bowie’s playing full blast on the sound system.

However, the show must go on, and so Whitehead leaves the stage, and various track heats continue. This includes a 100m for women which seem to consist of deaf athletes (or at the very least with impaired hearing), and when one of them false starts, the rest of the field follows, and we then have scenes reminiscent of the 1993 Grand National as various officials wave at the field to stop as they sprint past them, the starter firing guns to call them back which are getting louder and louder.

It’s all to no avail, and like that ill-fated afternoon at Aintree, the winner has to be taken to one side and told that it doesn’t count. However, to be fair to them, they’re given an hour or so to recover, and they’ll run it again at the end of the morning session.

As the session winds on, we’re told of various gold medals won in the Cycling and Equestrian sides of things, and this news is met with huge roars of approval. We then come to the heats of the Men’s 1500m.

No Brits in this one, but we’ll cheer these guys along and hope we get a good race. The gun fires, and within 30m or so of the start, it’s clear that for one competitor in particular, something has gone terribly wrong. The rest of the field has already reached the home straight on the first lap as 80,000 people suddenly notice a somewhat forlorn figure slowly making his way round the third bend in front of us at almost walking pace.

Meet Houssein Omar Hassan of Djibouti.

My first thought was that he was simply outclassed, but then I realised that there must have been a qualification process to get through to get here, and surely he couldn’t have got there by simply walking around the track.

He hadn’t. He’d injured his ankle just after the start. However, he was the only athlete that Djibouti had sent. And before you ask, yes, I had to look it up as well, it’s on the Horn of Africa next to Ethiopia. And clearly there was no way he was going to stop.

The other competitors finished in about 3m 45s, an average sort of time at this level, but every single person was focussed on Hassan. This painfully thin one armed figure, who looked like he might get blown over if Richard Whitehead then ran past him at full pelt, made his way slowly round the track. And as it became clear that this was a very special effort, the stadium rose as one, and basically gave the man a seven minute standing ovation. He crossed the line in a time of some eleven and a half minutes, and when he did so, the level of noise hit new stratospheric heights, with some commenting later on Twitter and on Radio 5 that it was the loudest cheer there had so far been in that stadium full stop, even beating the Ennis/Farah double of a few weeks ago.

I can’t begin to describe how it felt to be part of that. And without getting too sentimental how much hope it gave you that the vast vast majority of people are inherently decent human beings.

Next up was Whitehead’s medal ceremony. Now I’m no monarchist. In fact, I think God Save The Queen is an awful dirge, and should be replaced by Land Of Hope And Glory. But I’d be lying if the sound of a full stadium belting out a request for Liz to be sent victorious, (not to mention happy and glorious) was quite an experience.
Bromley’s finest got another royalty cheque heading his way as Heroes was played again, and then apart from the end of the Discus, it was time to leave the stadium.

This then left me with SEVEN hours to kill before my train was due to depart from Liverpool Street, and so it gave me a good opportunity to explore the park. I shan’t go into too much detail here, but suffice to say:

1. My, that Orbit thing’s tall.

2. Standard shrink wrapped Cheese and Tomato sandwich? £4.10. FOUR POUNDS TEN!!!! Opted instead for large Cumberland Sausage in baguette, which, in retrospect may have been a bad move, but more of that later.

3. Noisy people making noise in the Basketball Arena.

4. Park Live, You know, where those big old screens are. Sponsored by British Airways, and so you have to make do with adverts now and again. Fair enough. The feed they use is the Channel 4 feed that everyone else is watching, and so you would have thought that when Channel 4 go to adverts, we would. Wrong. As we found out coming back from a programmed break to see Sarah Storey on a lap of honour in the Velodrome having just won a gold. Now then. Ever heard about eight thousand people simultaneously say “You what?”. Galling. Especially when the gold was won about a hundred FEET away from where we were sitting.

5. Various rucksack wearing types dispensing beer, cider or wine (not for free before you ask). Now, let’s be honest here: Brits + Watching Sport + Alcohol normally = oh dear me. But none of that here. Not even a sniff of that sort of thing here. Everybody was just so damned happy and friendly. Channel 4’s Jon Snow tonight tweeted that over the whole Olympic/Paralympic period, all 27 days of it, and in all sites, there were seventeen arrests. Seventeen. Out of FIVE MILLION who attended. That is pretty damned impressive.

An incredible day. Life-affirming, and made you stop and think about your lot in life. Made you question if what you are doing with your life is really of any great value in the greater scheme of things. Made you realise how lucky you have things to have a body in relatively good working order. Made you guilty about all those times you complained about your lot, when really, you didn’t have anything to complain about at all.

Somehow, the Paralympics managed to carry on without my attendance for another week, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t yell “Get out of my seat you bastard!” the first time I saw the packed stadium again the following day.

Day after day of astonishing feats followed. David Weir with his four medals. Ellie Simmonds scything through the water like a small torpedo. Pictures of the Archery, with competitors with a grand total of no arms holding the front of the bow with their foot and using their mouth to draw the arrow back. Jonnie Peacock’s jaw dropping performance. Alex Zanardi returning to Brands Hatch with two less legs than he had last time, but leaving with two more gold medals.

As before with the Olympics, goodwill absolutely cascaded down from the stands to every single competitor. No matter their race, religion, sex or disability. Everybody was cheered, and the sky was black with hats every time anybody was introduced.

Except.

Some have said that the hearty booing of our esteemed Chancellor was because the crowd was “left-wing”, but you’re not telling me that all eighty thousand in that stadium were card carrying Labour Party members striding in holding hands with Tony Benn and with a copy of the Morning Star under the other arm whilst singing the Red Flag and dressed like Wolfie Smith. (There’s one for the teenagers)

If that was the case, why has Boris been cheered to the heavens every single time? Last time I looked he’s not exactly what you would term left wing.

Anyway, we’re getting away from the point, which is to say that once again, we delivered. Once again, we put on a huge show. Once again, we proved the nay sayers wrong. Even now, after all that has happened, there are still those who say the whole shebang was a huge waste of money. Fair enough. I don’t agree with that view, and would argue until I’m blue in the face, but each to their own.

The knack is now to harness the tidal wave of good cheer and support that seems to have been running through the country since the flame left Land’s End nearly four months ago. Seems like an age now, but have a look at the BBC Torch Cam archive from that first day in Cornwall. Penzance, Falmouth, Truro, Newquay, St Austell, Bodmin, Liskeard. All jam packed, just to see the torch go past. By the time it got to Plymouth nearly two hours behind schedule, there were tens of thousands lining the streets. That should have been the first clue that something special was happening.

It would be nice to think that some of the sports we’ve seen will break the stranglehold that football has on the back pages, but let’s be honest, it isn’t going to happen, is it? Even if at the next athletics meetings at Crystal Palace or Gateshead or wherever there are more astonishing performances, the back pages will still carry reports that Sir Alex Ferguson thinks that Roberto Mancini is a big girl or similar. The media has too much invested in the game to be otherwise.

Point of comparison. The same day I went to Stratford, my beloved Tractor Boys faced Huddersfield at Portman Road, and huffed and puffed to a 2-2 draw. If I had turned up there on the door, I would have expected to pay in the region of £28 for the, er, entertainment.

Cost of Olympic Stadium ticket: £10. In there for four hours as opposed to two.

All we can hope for is that for the sports, people are interested. I understand a new TV channel, LondonLegacy, is in the process of being set up - to show those Olympic (and presumably Paralympic) sports that haven’t really had much of an airing since the days of Dickie Davies on World Of Sport - Judo, Archery, Canoeing and the like. Should be available on all platforms apparently.

For the Paralympic Sports, it will be interesting to see what the appetite is for further coverage of World Championships and the like. I would be surprised if we have the level of coverage for either event that we’ve seen this year by the time we get to Rio, for the simple fact that it’s not being held here, and a lot of the coverage will take place in the small hours of the morning.

And I suppose we need to address Channel 4’s Paralympic coverage finally. They were always going to be on a loser compared to what the BBC had done previously. Plus, horror of horrors, they had adverts. It didn’t look good when the Opening Ceremony was continually interrupted by adverts, even during the athletes parade. Surely they could have just had a couple of hours with no adverts? Sky seem to manage well with F1 races, so it’s not that difficult. It became apparent that the best way to watch an event if you could was on one of the three extra channels that were provided, and it must be said, the coverage on these channels was top notch and uninterrupted.

Meanwhile, over on C4, they seemed to be getting a bit better at it. HRH Dame Balding was stately as ever, Ade Adepitan and Jonathan Edwards proved to be good value for money. By the start of the second week, they bowed to pressure and adopted the BBC policy of only stopping coverage for the news. Before this they were stopping for, of all things, Deal Or No Deal, Come Dine With Me and Hollyoaks, all of which were shipped off to E4 for the duration.

The following day after my trip (Sunday) I felt tired and listless, but just put this down to a very tiring day. I hate to sound all Country Mouse Comes To Town, but I left the Olympic Park with still four hours to kill, and after taking the Javelin High Speed Train to St Pancras (don’t bother, you don’t see anything, you’re underground all the time! We could have been travelling at 14mph for all I know!) mooched around in the West End until it was time to leave.

Turns out it wasn’t just being tired, as I found out that night after becoming stricken with a nasty case of food poisoning. Now I don’t know what caused it, whether it was the aforementioned Cumberland Sausage or whether I just had the misfortune to be behind someone who was carrying a virus and didn’t realise it, but suffice to say, I was ill. I’ll spare you the gory details, but it knocked me for six, and only now, a week later am I something approaching full fitness, although am still coughing and spluttering like I smoke 60 JPS a day. (I don’t)

But it’s been worth it. I would easily do the whole thing again (even with the unpleasantness that followed) - never have I been part of something where the human nature for good and support has been so prevalent. I may never see anything like it again, but as said before, let’s try and make it not just a month long flash in the pan, let’s try and make this place we all live in a good place. Things are being cut to the bone, yes and irrespective of what politicians or the media say, people do mostly care for other people. Ask Houssein Omar Hassan. And I hope there’s really been a sea change in the mood of the nation, I really do, but we will see. Fingers crossed, eh?

Today’s parade was televised by both the BBC and C4, with Sky News doing the honours as well. Yet again, an estimated million people have packed out London to see the athletes. Boris Johnson caused mayhem. Again. And did anyone else notice David Cameron’s smile slowly drain from his face as Bozzer cracked the gags?

As the BBC ended their coverage, they played possibly the only song they could in this situation: Nobody Does It Better.

On so many levels, for so many people: athletes, organisers, Gamesmakers, supporters, the British public as a whole, this was apt.

Thank you Britain. You were bloody brilliant.

That's That Done For Another Four Years Then

I think it’s safe to say that none of us have ever seen anything like it in this country. From Kenneth Branagh turning up in a top hat to the end of the Modern Pentathlon, London 2012 has shown itself to really be the Greatest Show on Earth. There have been performances that have been absolutely jaw dropping from the athletes, but especially by the nation as a whole which simply took the whole thing to their hearts. This is despite the whinging in a lot of the media from the bid was successful. And let’s be honest, we all did the same, especially after Leona Lewis warbled with Jimmy Page atop that bus in Beijing. There was suddenly a feeling of “uh-oh”. When the G4S fiasco became public with only a few weeks before the opening ceremony, this feeling only became stronger.

But somehow, we did it. You could argue that this has overshadowed things of greater import that have been happening in the world since July 27, and to a certain extent you’d be right. But I think those who are saying that the whole thing is basically the Government distracting us whilst the banking crisis is still continuing is forgetting one thing - the British public aren’t as stupid as we all thought. Look at how some of the print media has demonised those of different colours, different religions, different nationalities. 

And yet, what the last couple of weeks has shown, the vast majority of the British public don’t think like that. It really has been a “Come on in, we’d love to see you” sort of attitude which has done the nation proud. Other people far more eloquent than me have written reams about Mo Farah’s success and what it means to multiculturalism, so I won’t go into it here, but it makes me think that what has come out of this all is proof that 21st century Britain is inclusive, and the whole reason those who don’t agree with that, like your BNP, your EDL, and some newspapers shout loudest, is because they know that those who share that opinion are the minority, they are a dying breed, and they know it.

The BBC coverage has been magnificent, admittedly there has been the odd duff commentator (If Hugh Porter mentioned “The red carpet of The Mall” during cycling road races once, he did it a million times), and the less said about the Lineker performance the better. But these quibbles are vastly outweighed by the sheer scope of the coverage, the enthusiasm of people like Dan Topolski and Garry Herbert at the rowing, and then of course, the Balding, who from the Bert le Clos incident, to pitching up at the boxing, to her heartfelt ten minute adlib at the show jumping whilst waiting for a medal ceremony was the pick of the bunch. I am extremely pleased to see that she will be fronting a lot of the Paralympics coverage for Channel 4.

Then we need to look at the athletes, and where does one start? The names of Wiggins, Pendleton, Hoy, Ennis and Farah will be first and foremost in people’s minds, but the lesser known names of Gemma Gibbons in the Judo, Jade Jones in the Taekwondo, both Brownlees in the Triathlon and Nicola Adams in the Boxing also stand out for me. For established stars like Andy Murray, you ask if winning gold is the start of something bigger to follow. The look of sheer joy and exhiliration on the faces of those who won the medals (Hello Sophie Hosking), normally followed by an emotional presentation ceremony would seem to lay to rest the opinion those who said that it doesn’t matter to people. 

And of course, these scenes were not just confined to the British athletes. The aforementioned Bert le Clos, father of South African swimmer Chad, was positively exploding with pride as his son managed to overhaul Michael Phelps, who himself had to console himself with just being the most decorated Olympian ever. Usain Bolt of course was phenomenal, as was the Jamaican sprint relay team as a whole. David Rudisha blew away the competition. The sight of the female athletes from those countries who hadn’t sent any previously was a huge step forward. The Americans came and seemed to be having a whale of a time from the permanently grinning Missy Franklin, to Allyson Felix, to the sight of Brigitta Barrett basically leaping around like mad at the High Jump. 

Of course various villains of the peace have emerged over the last couple of weeks. Aiden Burley MP’s ill-advised tweet on the Opening Ceremony has hopefully ended any political aspirations he may have had, whereas the sight of Jessica Ennis romping home in the Heptathlon and celebrating with her white mother and black father blew holes in the hateful article written online by the Daily Mail’s Rick Dewsbury which claimed that there was no such thing as a happy mixed race couple in Britain. When an article is so full of bile that even the Daily Mail take it down, you can see that it might be a bit much.

Morrissey emerged from his Californian mansion to decry the whole shebang publicly, and missed the point entirely. Talented songsmithery is certainly his trade, but sometimes it’s best to say nowt. Piers Morgan made, what on the surface seemed like a noble gesture by saying he’d donate £1000 to Great Ormond Street Hospital every time a British medal winner sang God Save The Queen, but of course the flip side of this was that he was implying that if they didn’t sing it, not only were they showing a lack of respect to the country but they were NOT HELPING THE SICK KIDDIES. Those who didn’t sing and attracted his ire included Bradley Wiggins, Chris Hoy and Mo Farah, three men who have achieved more in their lives than the excremental Morgan could ever hope to.

But still, these are small divergences from what has simply been a magnificent period of time, even from when the Torch turned up in Cornwall nearly three months ago. And we get to do it all again in a couple of weeks when the Paralympics take place. I’m going myself on 1 September, sitting in the top tier of the Olympic Stadium watching the Athletics, and simply cannot wait to experience the atmosphere of what promises to be a certainly inspiring day.

So where do we go now? Is Britain a better place because of the 2012 Olympics? I sincerely hope so. The reports from the Olympic Park say that the whole organisation has been superb, and that the volunteers, the police, the armed forces, and whatever remnants of G4S actually showed up have been nothing short of welcoming. I have no doubt that tomorrow back at work in normality, some of you will encounter someone who thinks they can throw their weight around and speak to you like you’re something that they’ve stepped in because they’ve watch too many episodes of The Apprentice or read too many Daily Mail editorials, but I’d ask you to remember this, they clearly are soulless individuals, and to be honest, not worth worrying about.

There’s still a long, long way to go, and the proof will be in whatever legacy the games give us, but hopefully, we will now show that we won’t stand for politicians of all sides feathering their own nests with the help of the financial sector, we won’t stand for underhanded media reporting, we won’t have vacuous nobodies being our role models just because they can mime to a song picked by Simon Cowell or live in Essex, we won’t stand for discrimination on basis of sex, race, disability or sexual orientation. 

You may say this an overly romanticised view, and perhaps you’re right, but what I have personally taken from this is that we can make a difference, that Britain in 2012, whilst by no means a perfect place to live, is still better than a lot of other places, even if it is not helped by those who govern it, and I would urge every single one of you to carry on making that difference, and use your creative talents to their absolute fullest. 

Job done.