The London 2012 torch procession has been great entertainment. It seems that if you want to carry the thing, your best bet is to claim that you're a stalwart of that much-admired community organisation The B-List Actors' Guild. Unless, of course, you've been picked by a corporate sponsor or transported from overseas like that unfortunate American lady whose tattoo artist couldn't spell Olympic.
Yesterday, after a brief intervention by uber-luvvie Patrick Stewart - 'Make it Glow, Number One' - we were transported to the fictional world of Walford, where real-life cops were paid to protect make-believe Eastenders characters from a potential attack by a deranged extra. 'Tell 'em to hurry up, guv. We got to be up west in three quarters of an hour...'
In many ways, this blurring of truth and untruth could be a metaphor for the whole Olympic adventure. Real-world stadia protected by imaginary G4S security guards.
The opening ceremony is rumoured to be a kitsch £27m celebration of the British countryside, while farmers blockade real-world dairy distributors in support of the outrageous demand that they be paid more for their milk than it costs to produce. Perhaps, as Mary Poppins swoops over the rustic East London set, she can dispense a spoonful of sugar to help ease their pain.
If we don't win many real medals, never mind. I reckon we could conjure up a pretend podium or two at the closing ceremony and bring in some celebs to hand out the prizes. Has anyone checked the diaries of Alan Partridge or Borat?
Yesterday, after a brief intervention by uber-luvvie Patrick Stewart - 'Make it Glow, Number One' - we were transported to the fictional world of Walford, where real-life cops were paid to protect make-believe Eastenders characters from a potential attack by a deranged extra. 'Tell 'em to hurry up, guv. We got to be up west in three quarters of an hour...'
In many ways, this blurring of truth and untruth could be a metaphor for the whole Olympic adventure. Real-world stadia protected by imaginary G4S security guards.
The opening ceremony is rumoured to be a kitsch £27m celebration of the British countryside, while farmers blockade real-world dairy distributors in support of the outrageous demand that they be paid more for their milk than it costs to produce. Perhaps, as Mary Poppins swoops over the rustic East London set, she can dispense a spoonful of sugar to help ease their pain.
If we don't win many real medals, never mind. I reckon we could conjure up a pretend podium or two at the closing ceremony and bring in some celebs to hand out the prizes. Has anyone checked the diaries of Alan Partridge or Borat?
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