Royal Wedding Predictions

Here are my predictions for Harry and Meghan's big day. How will you score?

	Prediction	Score
Meghan’s dress
Colour(cream/offwhite/ivory /white)	white
Train (none/short/medium/long)	none
Sleeves? (none/short/long/three quarter)	none
Headdress (Tiara/flowers/other)	Tiara
Hair (up/down/half and half)	Half and half
Bouquet (tied bunch/draping)	bunch
Bridesmaids and page boys:
Outfit Colour:	Pale pink
Royals – predict colour outfit/accessories
Meghan’s Mum	Peach/cream
Queen	Lemon/lemon
Kate	Royal blue/neutrals
Princess Anne	Peach/navy
Camilla	Pale blue/navy
Zara Phillips	Navy/cream
Beatrice	Turquoise/navy
Eugenie	Multi-coloured/black
Miscellaneous
What time will’ the kiss’ take place ?	13:05
Will one of the bridesmaids/pageboys misbehave or scene steal?	Yes
Who will have the worst outfit	Posh Beckham or Princess Beatrice	n/a
Will anyone fluff their lines? Y/N	No
How many people will line the streets of Windsor? (nearest wins)	250,000
UK TV Viewing (nearest wins)	15 million

 

Suzanne

A story crafted in homage to Leonard Cohen

You could tell that she had been pretty once. Beautiful maybe.  Even then, she seemed to have an ethereal quality – a luminescence. But of course, back in 1969 I was just a naive teenager so I didn’t possess such descriptive ability.

The first time I saw her is a lasting memory. I was skimming pebbles on the shoreline just as dusk was falling and she appeared, like an ambulant mermaid newly earthbound. I didn’t know what an aura was, but I knew that I needed to be in that hazy pink and green space around her. I was at that awkward stage, hovering between child and man, but she approached me with a warm smile and not a hint of condescension. ‘It’s all in the wrist action’ she laughed ‘and you need to bend low, just as low as you can get’. She demonstrated, and the result was impressive. ‘Wow!’ I immediately felt like an excitable buffoon but couldn’t hide my admiration. There was an instant recognition between us, a comfort borne out of familiarity from a previous life – soulmate stuff. My heart was racing and I had no idea why this unusual woman was having such an effect on me. I just knew that I wanted to spend time with her, to confirm what I already suspected, that this lady was going to be of great importance in my daily existence, in my blueprint for life.

Suzanne fascinated me and all my mates. She was the most exotic creature we had ever heard in our Cornish fishing village. She wore the type of clothes we had only seen before on T.V., like those hippies in San Francisco. Flowing gypsy skirts and cheesecloth tops, with her bra-less breasts clearly showing through the flimsy material. She lived in a shed behind the sailor’s church, just by the waterfront. Generations ago, families of fishermen would gather there when a boat failed to return from a trip out into the Atlantic so history always hung heavy in the surrounding atmosphere. I felt that if the wooden statue of Our Lady at the entrance to the harbour could speak, she would have many a tale to tell.

Perhaps Suzanne had many a tale too. She must have been in her mid forties – which seems positively ancient when you’re sixteen - yet still had a perfect body. She was very slim and her long blonde hair, tumbling with abandon half way down her back, gave her a child like appearance. Possibly her apparent fragility was due to years of drug abuse - her arms showed the tell tale scars. Or maybe the pain went deeper. But it was her face that was etched by time - and life.  There was no bitterness in those bambi-like eyes, or anger in the full lips that held such promise. But the creases across her forehead and the deep lines framing her mouth were testament to tough times, too much sun and maybe a general disregard for her physical wellbeing. There was often a distance in her manner, too, just like a part of her was always somewhere else.

Suzanne was viewed with suspicion by most people in the harbour community. Except us lads. She was kind to us, very kind.

There was a story going round that anyone who came under her spell would be cursed. This was more likely a rumour started by jealous wives, because there was no doubt that Suzanne had an unsettling effect on the male of the species. She was credited with many affairs that were mostly fiction and they used to say that only lost men would want her. I never really knew what that meant.

To me – she was the most wonderful, unusual creature I had ever known. I used to imagine, lying on my bed looking at my pop art posters, what it would be like to be her lover, to travel with her to those special places in her mind, and those special places in her body.

Our mothers told us to stay away, but of course we didn’t. Ruled by surging testosterone levels, we were eager pupils and she was a willing teacher. I suspect that many a young lad became a man, a gift given with great care and generosity by the lady in the shed. Actually, it wasn’t really a shed, more of a wooden bungalow. We would be fishing from the harbour wall, smoking cigarettes and hoping that we looked really cool, and she would walk up to us and say ‘hello boys’ with her shy smile and occasionally invite one to join her.

Except for me. I had a very different view of Suzanne, with her incredible body and her complex mind.

She taught me so much, but not like the others. I used to go to her home and we would sit on purple cushions, smoking dope and drinking elderflower wine. Her bungalow was like an enormous bedsit – one large open space draped with rich coloured fabrics which gave the place the air of a Bedouin tent. No table or chairs, but sumptuous cushions of all shapes and sizes, and a massive circular bed, which was clearly her main living space. In the corner, behind a crimson velvet curtain, were an old fashioned claw foot bath, and a basin with gold taps. I could imagine her naked in that bath, and fantasise how I could soap every inch of that fabulous body. For a sixteen year old boy from nowhere, this was just about as erotic as it could get. Our conversations on those days took on flights of fancy, where we let our fantasies run riot. She told me that the only limit to my life should be my imagination – everything was possible. At other times, we talked about so much, about Vietnam, the pill, The Beatles, Woodstock. She taught me how to meditate, to listen before speaking and to think for myself. She taught me that love could mean exquisite pain or boundless joy. She had experienced both I reckon. And I think that the exquisite pain had turned her slightly mad. Or was she the sane one, in her exclusive world, wearing rags and walking barefoot with such style? Not worrying about what the local people thought, giving without seeking reward, never judging. She used to say that it was only the sailors who never returned who were truly free.

I must confess that my thoughts of Suzanne generated many a time of solitary, self induced pleasure. We were lovers in my mind and my heart and I began to understand what they meant about only lost men seeing her. I truly believe that even though I was barely a man, I was one of the chosen few who really did see her. And to see Suzanne was to become a traveller without destination, lost in that beauty. The beauty of her heart, the beauty of her mind, the beauty of her soul. The beauty of her unconditional, unquestioning love.

And I carried that beauty with me through my life.

I was never quite clear about the nature of our relationship. I knew that it was significant, that in someway she was shaping my present and my future. I suspected that if we ever had crossed that tantalising line from spiritual to physical, the magic may have been broken irrevocably, and the risk was just too great to take. The joy of just being in her presence, for us both to share our secret thoughts more than made up for the fleeting, physical longing when I was with her.

We couldn’t see each other every day, of course. My relentless mother saw to that and I could only manage so many alibis. And no doubt for Suzanne, seeing this angst ridden innocent only now and then was probably more than enough. But in the meantime, we used to leave each other notes under a rock in the churchyard that I used to walk through on my way home. Simple quotations or thoughts, never heavy but always meaningful. What fun we would have had if email had been around then!

Suzanne gave me a totally different perspective on so many things. As a growing lad, my main focus was to get laid, but subtly she changed all that. We often lay together on her bed, just holding hands and talking in a casual way, as though we were sitting across a table in café. And I would will her to turn to me, take my face in her hands and wrap her body around me. And then she would tell me how true love wasn’t about what you expect to get in return, but about how you give. And if you are really lucky, you may be loved back.

Suzanne analysed my tarot cards and told me that I was a healer, which I thought was very weird as I was hopeless at school and certainly wasn’t into alternative therapies. She also saw success and a happy future, which I was sure was just a pathetic attempt to cheer me up. She taught me about manifestation, how you really can shape your future and more importantly, your present.

Thanks to my strange connection with this benevolent lady, I gained confidence at school and started to achieve good grades. And the kudos of my assumed liaison with a woman of substantial experience and undoubted attraction did my reputation with my peers no harm too. Soon it was time for me to leave my cosy existence for the unchartered territory of University. I was toying with the idea of turning down my place as the thought of not having my regular fix of bathing in the wonderful aura was almost too much to bear.

Then, just as suddenly as she had appeared, Suzanne was gone. I went to our rock as usual, and instead of a note, there was an envelope containing a single feather. With a sinking heart and a searing emptiness in the pit of my stomach, I knew immediately that my guardian angel would no longer be a physical presence in my life.

Now some forty years later, I am standing on the harbour side, looking out to sea with the church behind me. The shed is long gone. She was right of course. About everything. I am a healer – a consultant neurologist - and I was lucky enough to find a love who loves me back in just the way that I give love.

And I am so glad, glad that I only ever touched her soul with my soul and her perfect body with my mind….

Truth or Dare? The Quiet Man chose both

Truth or Dare? The Quiet Man chose both.

How can you know if someone is telling the truth or that their motives are honourable? Whether ‘tis a politician or some other mere mortal , in the absence of super powers all we can do is assess the facts as they are presented and trust our instinct.

I trusted (and in general still do) – that the Tories were the best party to manage the UK deficit. I trusted that their budgets would be fair and that welfare reforms would be exactly that – reform rather than a hatchet job.

My unease with this blind faith was triggered by the cut in the welfare cap after the last election. But Ian Duncan Smith (IDS), often referred to as the Quiet Man, was Work and Pensions Secretary and I believed (and still do) that he is a good an honourable man with a genuine desire to improve welfare provision through reform. I was further disturbed by the apparent imbalance in George Osborne’s budget. More cuts for disability benefits, juxtaposed by an easing of corporation tax and other tax concessions. ‘Still’, I thought to myself in my naïve bubble – ‘IDS is in charge of welfare reform so this can be as bad as it seems’.

And then the bombshell dropped. IDS resigned – apparently completely out of the blue two days after the budget. The resignation letter and the Prime Minister’s response both reveal some pretty raw emotions. IDS does not pull his punches in his letter ‘ ..the latest changes to benefits to the disabled, and the context in which they’ve been made are a compromise too far’ . He goes on..’they are not defensible in the way they were placed within a budget that benefits higher earning tax payers..’ The PM states he is ‘puzzled and disappointed’ at the resignation, stating ‘we collectively agreed, you, No 10 and the Treasury – proposals which you and your department then announced a week ago’

Then the knives were out, gloves off or any other ‘et tu Brute?’ type expletive emanating from the blue corner. Worst of these was Pensions Minister Ros Altman with an unpleasant attempt at a character assassination of the Quiet Man. In an acerbic attack which I suspect says more about her than the man she ‘found incredibly difficult to work for’, Baroness Altman accused IDS of using this platform to promote his views against membership of the EU. She is ‘horrified to see him abuse the freedom to take sides….he seems to want to do maximum damage to the party leadership in order to further his campaign to try to get Britain to leave the EU.’ The implication of this petulant outburst is that IDS is putting his own agenda before his responsibilities as cabinet minster  

So what is the truth of this sorry tale? Did IDS indeed comply with the cuts and if he did, why choose the sweet spot of a Friday evening post-budget to deliver his resignation missile – which cut right to the heart of …..well, the right.

I find this whole situation fascinating, not just because Welfare reforms affect us all as they shape the society in which we live, but also the ‘truth’ of the matter. I suspect no-one is actually lying but who is being honourable?

In attempt to solve this weighty conundrum I tuned into Andrew Marr’s programme on the BBC this morning. IDS was to be interviewed and maybe I would have the opportunity to test my truth and honour radar.

There were four points that held most sway for me.

Firstly, the ‘warm up act’ – David Laws, former Lib Dem Chief Secretary to the Treasury, gave a fascinating insight into the relationship between IDS and the Chancellor, George Osborne. Laws reported that IDS said (to paraphrase)  ‘There was a running sore…..over welfare policy. George Osborne saw welfare as a cash cow to be squeezed into to help to deliver deficit reduction where IDS had a ‘moral purpose of welfare reform to help people back into employment’

This ‘independent’  view (truth radar says this was a balanced opinion) set the scene nicely for the IDS interview as it painted a clear picture of the two main protagonists in this drama – the chancellor squeezing the cash cow of welfare to produce cuts to repair the deficit vs the ‘moral welfare reformer’

The second deciding factor for me the fact that IDS stated that he wasn’t actually at the budget presentation in the House of Commons of Wednesday (the pictures in the newspapers were old images from a previous budget) – he was, in fact, at a funeral. So the criticism directed at him for standing by in silence as the budget was announced is misplaced. I suspect that saying a final goodbye to friend or family member may have served to focus IDS’s concerns about his conflicting views with the Chancellor.

Thirdly – IDS gave a clear explanation as to how he reached his decision – stating timelines and facts – giving the overall impression of a man who genuinely believed in welfare reform as a long term process, not just a series of cuts. He said that the final blow for him was – yes he knew about the welfare cuts but he didn’t know about the wider tax initiatives to be used in the budget. And I believe him. He said this was nothing about the EU. And I believe him about that too. (Although I must concede that his support of a ‘Brexit’ must be easier from outside the cabinet)

Finally - it wasn’t just what he said, but the way he said it. I was impressed with the manner in which IDS responded to Marr’s questions. He started the interview with a calm, but almost timid demeanour, clearing his throat often and choosing his words with care. But as the questioning continued, with Marr skilfully giving IDS the time a space to ‘speak his truth’, the voice became stronger, the passion clearer and the ring of truth louder. This was a masterful way to counter his critics and set the record straight. And I believe him.

Welfare reform, like the NHS, is always going to be a poison chalice for any politician. Policy must necessarily be about medium to long term strategy, supporting those who need help the most and balancing those costs with encouraging those who can take some responsibility for their own financial and physical wellbeing. Reform should not just be about cuts, it should be about facilitating positive change. Change to encourage the weak to become stronger and while supporting the most vulnerable in our society. All of this should be within the context of balancing the books, managing the deficit and implementing a robust fiscal strategy.

I believe that Ian Duncan Smith became frustrated and despairing of the disconnect between welfare reform and George Osborne’s budget and resigned with honourable intent.

The Quiet Man spoke his truth loud and clear today.

If Public Relations was an Olympic Sport…

There has been a lot of winning and losing going on for the past two weeks – some spectacular achievements and some ‘best forgotten’ moments too. Athletes aside, who has won the Public Relations stakes for London 2012 so far?

Gold medal:
And the winner is…. The Royal Family. Our blue bloods seem to have been playing their own high spec version of ‘Where’s Wally?’. Scan the crowd at any Olympic venue (not just in the Olympic Park) and you could find Princess Anne, Prince Harry, The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and other more minor Royals cheering and screaming with everyone else. You had to look carefully to spot them– dressed in their casual Olympic Ambassador kit of polo shirt and chinos, the enthusiasm was genuine, the joy was real.
From the moment HM The Queen ‘parachuted’ into the opening ceremony – Team GB Royal have got it absolutely right. PB’s (personal bests) have been coming thick and fast – Elizabeth R’s link up with James Bond was classy and funny – worthy of a world record.
Another PB was Kate and William’s embrace as Sir Chris Hoy won a gold medal in cycling. The intimate shot of two young people clearly in love and completely caught up in the gold rush graced many a front page last week.  Kate’s passion for hockey and her steadfast attendance at each women’s team match has been impressive and Prince Harry capped the family’s medal winning form with his crowd-pleasing performances while maintaining some serious street cred..

Silver Medal:

It was a close call, but just pipped at the tape into second place is our wonderful military and police whose profile has received a significant boost with an event which started as a sprint (to quickly respond to the shortfall in security staff caused by contractor failure) to a marathon throughout the Olympic fortnight. Cheery, courteous and steadfast, these men and women in uniform have embraced athletes and visitors alike with the warm blanket of discreet, but robust security.

Bronze Medal:

Previous entertaining form and early promise demonstrated with his ‘shabby chic’ appearance at the closing ceremony of the Bejing Olympics meant that Boris Johnson was always a strong contender for a London 2012 PR medal. With his infectious joie de vivre, his buoyant enthusiasm and apparent innocence (despite reports otherwise), Boris is a constant source of amusement and yet somehow his considerable intellect shines through. He must be the only politician in the world who could turn the farce of being stuck on a zip wire, dangling in thin air for several minutes, into a PR triumph. The foreign press love him, the camera loves him, Londoners (mainly) love him and I love him.

As our Olympic dream has become delicious reality there will be many other personal and corporate PBs. But there are also the ‘could do better’ in the PR Olympics. These include G4S – the security firm who well and truly messed up, and effectively committed PR suicide. Our coalition leaders haven’t done particularly well either – squabbling about the House of Lords reform at a time when the nation is basking in the happy glow of global approval.

Hey ho – you win some, lose some – but perhaps the most precious prize of all, worth multiple gold medals are the words of Jacques Rogge, President of the International Olympics committee who described London as ‘a city partying’ . He continued ‘the kindness of the British people has helped deliver more than anyone expected and the success was very reassuring for the future of sport’

So you see, dear world, us Brits are, in the main, lovely people – really – we are!

Our Olympic triumphs so far (and I’m not talking about medals)

So much for my plan to write a daily Olympics blog! I have been glued to the TV screen and, I’m proud to say, have also attended an Olympic event this week. All the frantic screaming at the telly and cheering in a crowd has left little room for literary pontification. I’ll be bereft when the Olympics finish but at least I’ll get my life back and can attend to the backlog of chores again. The highlights so far have been many and varied, and here are a few of my favourite triumphs.

The opening ceremony: Wow! I must confess that, like many Brits, I was fearful that the overture to the greatest show on earth would be a damp squib. How wrong we were. The director Danny Boyle encapsulated so much of the best of the British psyche – inclusive and diverse, inventive yet traditional, artistic and scientific, but most of all self-deprecating and funny. The James Bond sketch featuring that most famous of leading ladies was hysterical. I received texts and emails from friends across the world telling me how much they enjoyed the joke. Well done your majesty!! Just one duff note – well several actually. I’m sorry Sir Paul McCartney but it really is time to hang up your musical boots. The voice just isn’t up to it anymore and Hey Jude was not a rallying cry worthy of such an incredible night.

London: What a beautiful city, showcased at its very best! The location of some events was inspirational. From the equestrian events at Greenwich Park, the cycling by Hampton Court Palace, to Archery at Lord’s cricket ground, London has proved itself a worthy Olympic host city. The location for beach volleyball (which is a bit like a great party with a medal at the end) is inspired. As the sun set with Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, and the London Eye providing an almost mythical backdrop, a commentator mentioned that this must be the most beautiful location in the world for this great spectator sport.

The out of London venues: Equally impressive. The rowing on a manmade lake just by Windsor Castle, the beautiful Dorset coast and some stunning football stadiums prove that this is not all about the capital.

The BBC: Every sport is being covered, every day. There are over 20 channels with live streams of every event. The specialist commentary, interviews, analysis and human interest stories have kept a nation gripped. I believe the licence payers money has been well spent (for my overseas readers, the BBC is ‘free’ to view in return for an annual licence fee of around £145 ($200) which covers radio as well.). The downside is – all this coverage is very distracting so housework, writing deadlines and general communication with the outside world has been severely limited within my own personal part of the universe.

The tears: Who doesn’t enjoy a good weep of happiness? I seem to be permanently in floods at the moment. Every time the National Anthem is played or there is some story of human endeavour leading to triumph over adversity (any nationality will do) – I blub shamelessly. High spots were Gemma Gibbons (ranked 42 in the world) who looked heavenwards and mouthed ‘I love you Mum’ as she qualified for the Olympic final eight years after she lost her Mum. And the young shooting gold medallist Peter Wilson who broke off in the middle of a post victory interview as he ran towards his father shouting with a voice cracking with emotion ‘Dad’ and fell into his father’s arms. Another heart-wrencher was the very large father of the gold medal winning South African swimmer Chad Le Clos, weeping profusely as he kept saying ‘look at him, he’s beautiful – whatever happens for the rest of my life, it doesn’t matter, just look at him’ . Awwww - surely even the coldest of hearts would melt at such parental pride.

Our Royals: From our parachuting Queen (I managed to persuade one visitor that Her Majesty really DID sky dive into the arena…) to Princess Anne’s silver medal winning daughter the British royals have truly embraced the Olympic Games. Speaking of embracing – in the Daily Telegraph today there’s a charming picture of Kate and William having a joyful cuddle as they celebrate Chris Hoy’s fantastic 5^th Gold Medal. Awwww.(again)

The British weather: So far so good. After a truly dismal June, the sun has been kind in putting in several appearances this week. And the rain, in the main, has stayed away. At least the monsoon-like deposits have stopped anyway.

The general air of happiness: I was at old Trafford for some Olympic football matches last week and even though Team GB wasn’t featured in either match there were over 70,000 spectators. And to a man, woman and child we all had the best of times. We whooped and cheered, oohed and aahed just as though each team was our personal responsibility. And the players responded in kind. At the end of the New Zealand, Egypt match they stayed on the pitch for ages, waving and thanking the crowd. Yes, security was a bit slow and we got wet as we queued to have our handbags checked but so what – we all had a great time and came away happy.

And maybe that is the best triumph of all so far. Despite all the carping and whinging from many UK residents in the build-up to the games, the events of the past week have made most of us happy.  Happy to see our country showcased in all its glory. Happy to see sport and sportsmanship at its best. Happy to recognise that we really are good at organising things. And maybe best of all – happy to have something to be happy about at last!

Crisis? What Crisis?

Has Olympic fever completely taken a hold yet? Not quite – the temperature has certainly risen – but that’s the weather – a high of 32 centigrade signalled that summer really is here.

So far so good – ish.

The traffic chaos isn’t quite as bad as predicted as the dedicated Olympic road lanes are in put into action. But drivers are getting frustrated as VIP’s and official vehicles speed past as they queue in reduced number of lanes, risking a £130 ($85) fine if they stray into the exclusive channels.

As visitors and competitors continue to flood into our airports, there has been a national sigh of relief as the border agency staff have called off their strike, planned for tomorrow. The government challenged the legality of the balloting process leading to the call to industrial action and the PCS union came to their senses as the weight of public opinion was leaning heavily against them. But this victory was tempered by the embarrassing story of an 11 year old boy who found his way through UK security, passport check and boarding scrutiny (not) to take off on a flight from Manchester to Rome, with no ticket, no passport and no boarding card! Even more embarrassing was the fact that the diminutive stowaway was spotted by fellow passengers as airline staff failed to notice that he didn’t even have a seat! Oops..

Rather oddly, the sport started in earnest today – with the women’s football tournament kicking off – three days before the opening ceremony on Friday evening. The good news is that Team GB started with a 1 – 0 victory over New Zealand – go girls!

But again this positive start was nearly overshadowed by another ‘oops’ moment as the North Korea vs Colombia match was almost cancelled as the flag of South Korea, not known as a best friend of their neighbours North Korea, was shown in error alongside the team announcements. The North Korean women stormed off the pitch and could only be persuaded to return after an hour’s grovelling. I know it is a serious issue, but I can’t help smiling as I imagine the heart stopping moment as officials were told of the faux pas….

Still, as my grandmother used to say. ‘Worse things happen at sea’. Everything seems to be on track - apart from our triple jumper Phillips Idowu, Team GB’s triple jumping medal hope, who is not only not on track, he seems to be nowhere near any track as he failed to join the team at their training camp in Portugal.

As the Nation holds its collective bated breath and start to enjoy the greatest show on earth, we can only hope that any other ‘oops’ moments will be equally minor. Crisis? What crisis? All is well – after all – us Brits are usually pretty good in a crisis any. Aren’t we?....

2012 Olympics – the good, the bad and the ugly (so far)

If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. All around us ‘The greatest sporting event on earth’ unfolds. Olympic fever is abound and I seem to sway from enthusiasm and excitement to embarrassment and despair in equal measure – much like the rest of the UK population I suspect.

The good:

‘And the 2012 Olympics games go to…… London’.

Winning the bid to host the games was a fantastic achievement. The UK pitch was spot on – the right mix of history, emotion, technology, youth, celebrity and the ‘L’ word – legacy. A much deserved victory.
The Olympic Park.
Finished on time, within budget. An impressive vista with plenty of green space, some soon to be iconic buildings and, a prerequisite for most public spaces – a controversial sculpture. The Stadium, Aquatics Centre, Velodrome and Basketball Arena all look well worth a visit, even without the sport. This regeneration of the shabby and neglected East London landscape is stunning.
The Torch Relay.
What a wonderful idea. The young and old, strong and not so strong, superfit and unsporty, the good and the great,  famous and revered, the humble and charitable, the physically challenged and previously unsung heroes have all been worthy couriers of this precious cargo. By the time the flame completes its 70 day journey the Olympic stadium it will have been carried by 8,000 inspirational human beings. It will have travelled within 10 miles of 95% of the population of the UK. A truly ‘once in a lifetime’ event.
Our police force and our armed forces.
The lads and lassies who are stepping into the breach after the security debacle will provide the best security we could wish for and add some class to the occasion. Bless ‘em all!

The Bad:

Team GB Football.

How can David Beckham NOT be selected for Team GB football? That’s the David Beckham who played a massive part in winning the bid for the games in the first place. The David Beckham who is such an iconic sportsman and global celebrity that he was first choice to welcome the flame into the UK as it was helicoptered in to the furthest tip of Cornwall one miserable and wet day in May. The David Beckham who wears his heart on his sleeve and his country in his heart. The David Beckham who, by his presence in the team alone would most likely have prompted the sale of at least another 100,000 tickets for the undersubscribed football matches. The David Beckham who is a motivator, play maker and, most significantly who scored a fantastic goal from 35 yards in an LA Galaxy match only 10 days ago. Stuart Pearce – the Team GB football manager who didn’t select the best loved footballer in the world – shame on you.
Trying to get on with your daily business in London.
I am fortunate enough not to have to go to London too often but even last week – it was seeeething with tourists. Yes, we welcome you and your dollars/yen/euros and even enjoy your company.  But we do not enjoy your rucksacks or your pull-along suitcases. I am short so every time a traveller with a rucksack turns round on the tube I seem to get smacked in the mouth. Last week a visitor (to be fair she may not have been here for the Olympics) wheeled her suitcase over my feet and then side swiped me with her holdall as she sat down. Enough already!
The Olympic Traffic Lanes.
It’s probably a wise move to dedicate lanes to Olympic traffic but it is very confusing and the re-phasing of traffic lights is a nightmare.
G4S Security.
Yes it’s old news now but to award a massive security contract for the games to only one firm seems naïve at best – downright folly at worst. What a monumental c*ck up – and how embarrassing to find that just 2 weeks before the main event the security firm of choice have underperformed to the tune of around 5,000 personnel. Is this such a disaster though? Will we miss the dodgy looking geezers in ill-fitting uniforms, many of whom would have a limited command of the English language and security backgrounds that would make ‘Del boy’ look like Mother Theresa? I think not.

The Ugly:

The British Press:
Always focussing on the negative - the traffic, the security, the ticketing. Come on chaps – we’re not doingthat badly – some good news stories please.
Team GB (again)
How can a team that excludes aforesaid David Beckham, include drugs cheats Dwain Chambers and David Millar. To be fair, the British Olympic Association did try to maintain the lifetime ban but were overturned by the Court of Arbitration for sport, but they didn’t have to select these bad examples. Like they didn’t select the Taekwondo world number one Aaron cook, apparently just because he chose to train independently from the GB team. Shocking and disappointing.
The home affairs select committee.
The public verbal mauling of G4S security firm managing director Nick Buckles at a specially convened committee achieved nothing apart from feeding some dubious egos of also–ran politicians. If you have a crisis, you get together and fix it. Then you have the inquiry and post mortem. The public humiliation of the G4s boss, who accepted responsibility for the potential security debacle simply highlighted the vacuous and self -serving nature of this type of inquiry.
The striking UK border agency staff.
The public and commercial services union have called a strike on Thursday – one of the business days for incoming Olympic visitors. This action is planned on the basis of only 1 in 10 members voting for to strike. Will the public will support them in this sabotage? I doubt it.

And to all the nay sayers about London 2012…….As Boris Johnson, the London Mayor, said the other day ‘stop whingeing and put a sock in it’

To my overseas readers, he meant - ‘stop complaining and shut up’

Hear hear…