We’re all secretly glad, aren’t we?
It was getting too much. This is Britain. More specifically in my case, this is London. Usually if I have a conversation with somebody at the bus stop it’s to ask them politely to stop trying to mug me.
I’m tired of enjoying my trips around town, exchanging amusing pleasantries on the tube with one and all, and I’m certainly no fan of the convivial, non-threatening atmosphere in the carriages. It feels like something bad is going to happen. Like a bake sale.
Every day at the office I veer closer than ever to ‘making friends’ instead of ‘having colleagues’ as we have so fucking much to talk about all the time, basking in our shared experiences and lauding the heroic achievements of our compatriots. It sounds like bloody communism.
I’m obviously pleased that the fireworks and frivolity are over but I am somewhat worried about politicians ‘carrying on the Olympic legacy’. Not from my taxes they won’t. And I am concerned that some of the foreigners who we wantonly let in to do ‘sport’ won’t be so keen to leave again, and some of them are quick so they’ll be a bugger to catch.
But I’m sure it’s ok, I’m sure it’ll be normal soon and we’ll forget this sorry business ever happened. It’ll be back to watching Huw Edwards tell us what’s going to kill us next on the television from now on, none of your physical prowess and elite athletes and sense of togetherness, thank you very much.
I’m sure some do-gooders will fart around for a bit and try and get us to volunteer for the needy or something, but that’ll die down. At some point in the next two weeks an elderly lady will get on the bus, look at the seat next to me and smile expectantly. And I’ll smile back and say “My bag is sitting there, bitch.”
And then, my friends, I’ll be happy again.