Home time

The man opposite me is silent. Pensive.

The man opposite me wears clothes chosen by his wife. He is not image-conscious, nor do I think he is persecuting me; not this man opposite me.

The man opposite me is no international hit man, no man of mystery. His socks are standard-issue black, far from mundane blue. There is no suspicious bulge at his ankle nor in his jeans; I have no reason to suspect he is concealing a massive Glock.

Cocoon III

Day three of the Olympics and the magic has truly begun: all of the
commuters have morphed into geriatrics and tourists. Geriatric
tourists, too. My carriage has attained Mothball Odour Factor 7 which,
even when seasonally adjusted, is unseasonally high. An expected MOF
at this time of summer would be 2-3.

The man opposite me is clearly a spy.

The Highs and Lows of Being a Brit

The best we can hope for is a huge piece of ribbon suspended across the stadium with the Queen and Philly taking one scissor, Boris Johnson and Seb Coe taking the other and a quick snip snip, "I declare the games open, now start running, I've got to get to the bingo at nine."

That was truly what I believed would be the best riposte to Beijing's incredible display in 2008. No point competing when you're not going to win. That's the Olympic way. In fact, I don't think I actually saw the CGI fireworks over Beijing, the pretty girl who didn't sing nor the amazing drumming. Not live, anyway. I did eventually see each of these events but only through HerTube as the missus would have encouraged me to have a butchers as she was reviewing them. Not 'reviewing'; 'reviewing'. Seeing them again, not analysing.

I have actively avoided opening and closing ceremonies in all sports since 1992.