For eight years, I’ve been subjected to Olympic-related complaints. For some it’s been the cost, but mostly the whining has centred on the massive influx of people and the stresses it would place on public transport.
Londoners like complaining – it’s a stereotype for a reason – but these gripes took on epic, Chicken-Little-the-sky-is-falling-in proportions. And crapness-betide anyone (AKA me) who tried to argue otherwise.
I’m speaking from experience. Sydney coped fine. It’s the OLYMPIC GAMES. GET EXCITED. It’s only two weeks. Suck it up.
Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zip-ba-dooby. Minds stitched shut.
And now it’s here. The chicks have departed, run-off scared. Over the last few days, I’ve walked over Convent Garden without so much as a body slam. I’ve ridden empty central London buses and eerily hollow tube carriages. I did get jostled by a smelly while promenading at the Proms, but that’s a rite of musical passage and completely unrelated.
For the most part, I’ve been feeling like this lonely tourist guy from Fantastic Man. Without the cigarette. And the clicky-clicky camera. And the sea side view. And the hotel reservation. Everything else, yes, that’s the drift. Not that I’m complaining.
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