Diary: London Olympics 2012

Real History, and a Radical’s Diary

Documents on the First

IN her sixty years’ rule she has seen the feckless politicians turn her kingdom from a mono-ethnic wellspring of world civilisation into a drug-crazed, gun-toting, knife-wielding
‘multi-cultural’ cesspit.

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A full Radical’s Diary will be posted this weekend:

Friday,
July 27, 2012
London,
England

FROM NINE pm I watch with
Hugo the Olympics opening ceremony, devised by
Danny Boyle, who is said to be a leftwing film director. Most of the tumbling turmoil that follows goes right over our heads, and no doubt over the heads of the five billion viewers around the world too. The media fare better, having been provided with a handout which tells them what is happening, and who is who.

It is very chaotic and spectacular, even inspired in parts, but it fails to chill me except for a few touches reminiscent of
Richard Wagner (or even Albert Speer
and Benno von Arent) — the steelworkers forging a fifth Olympic ring of
Golden fire to complete the other four, the searchlights over the stadium, the torchlight parade, the blonde maidens carrying the copper torches and the country-names.

There is a less inspired skit involving HM The Queen and the film actor who plays James Bond, with
Her Majesty parachuting into the stadium from a helicopter — but it seems to have gone wrong.
While we see the dummy Queen plummeting out of the helicopter above the stadium, she does not float down into the actual arena.

Nobody comments on this; none of the first editions of tomorrow’s newspapers mentions it —
perhaps, like the unfortunate Crawfie incident in the 1960s, they have based their descriptions of the ceremony entirely on the press handout.
The journaille, they never change.

Anyway, the monarch herself duly enters the
Royal box, and sits looking visibly po-faced throughout the ceremony, while her consort appears to doze at her side. I think she must privately view this demeaning skit as the lowest point of her reign, coming so soon after the
Jubilee celebrations.

IN her sixty years’ rule she has seen the feckless politicians turn her kingdom from a mono-ethnic wellspring of world civilisation into a drug-crazed, gun-toting, knife-wielding
“multi-cultural” cesspit. The British Empire imploded. The BBC television cameras hover lovingly on every Black immigrant face that has been shoe-horned, heedless of chronology, into the scenes that Boyle has devised — including the top-hatted 19th Century capitalist factory-owners, and even the Suffragettes.

Black children dance around 19th century English
Maypoles. Boxer, George Orwell‘s heroic carthorse in Animal Farm, would be scratching his forelock: didn’t remember them, somehow. On the far side of the arena, the
Empire Windrush berths to orchestrated cheers, bringing its first toxic cargo of
Caribbean doom.

After the first hour, the constant and inappropriate interpolation of Black faces becomes offensive, and probably as much so to them as to us, the Whites. There is brief relief when the outside-broadcast cameras go on to other celebrations in Northern Ireland, Wales, and Scotland, where there is not a single Black face for the BBC cameras to linger joyously upon.

No doubt they will be digitally inserted later, just as Black faces, looking remarkably like Robertson’s marmelade golliwogs, were digitally superimposed on some of Harry Potter’s cheering fellow-pupils in the final scene of the first Potter movie.

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