When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life. I’ve come home to London for the most beautiful part of the year, and every turn of a corner confirms this. I have just been to friends in Gascony for the weekend, and the one common theme here and in France this spring is the upcoming Olympic Games.
Stepping off the plane two-and-a-half weeks ago, the buzz was palpable…every sign in Heathrow Airport depicted a different sport, every shop has special edition Olympic product and, as it’s also the Queen’s Golden Jubilee, there are Union Jacks on everything from baked beans to footballs.
At Piccadilly last night it was 2°C, and I was having dinner at a wonderful, starry, glitzy restaurant called the Wolesley. It’s owned by Chris Corbin and Jeremy King, the same gents who own the legendary Ivy, which as well as being the most glamorous restaurant in town was also where I spent most of my childhood, as my father’s office was above it…happy days.
As I walked down past the Ritz, you could look in any window and see the Games were well and truly here. The windows of Fortnum & Mason were stuffed with Olympic merchandise that was a cut above Sainsbury’s offerings…the anticipation is everywhere.
Last week I was lucky enough to visit the Shard building with its developers. It’s now the tallest building in Europe, and the view from the top floor shows the whole panorama of the Olympic site in Stratford. The regeneration of this area of London, from the Westfield shopping centre to the sports facilities is extraordinary, and you cannot help but be amazed that a piece of wasteland round the Thames estuary has been transformed like this.
From the velodrome to the tracks, sports venues are scattered across the city. Many of them will be left for the use of ondoners once the Games are over, and in the meantime the banks of the Thames are being used as viewing platforms for rowing enthusiasts. You cannot buy a bag of chips or a can of cold drink which is not covered in the Olympic motif.
I am loving being a part of it, and feel proud to be British this year. There are things we do well, even now, and to arrive at Toulouse Airport at the weekend and watch the equestrian team talking about how incredible the facilities are was almost enough to get me singing Land of Hope and Glory followed by Jerusalem.
Pomp, circumstance and sport are enshrined in English life, and I am crossing my fingers that it all goes off without a hitch. On a food note, cheesy footballs with Olympic torches, potted shrimps with a Union Jack on the lid, foie gras in the French supermarkets and Olympic cider have all gone down a treat.
There have been gripes, there always are…the officials’ uniforms are dreadful, Londoners are not looking forward to the congestion on the roads, and the general concensus is that we are already overrun with Johnny foreigners, so another influx might be more than we can take. But watching Eddie Kidd on television last night – a once handsome man now paralysed from a motorcycle accident – trying to speak from a wheelchair about how proud he was to be carrying the Olympic Torch, was humbling. All kinds of ordinary people will carry the Torch, including a fireman who lost both legs and who said he never accomplished much before he was disabled but now had a rich life, and for whom carrying the Torch was the ultimate accolade.
We are cynics these days, but it is a beautiful thing to see sportsmen reaching for the stars, and with Queen Elizabeth 50 years on the throne looking down on it all, who will fail to shed a little tear.
Here’s to the Games…
Story by Elizabeth Moore