Olympic glory

The best way to explain a visit to the Olympic stadium in London is to compare it to a pilgrimage, and in particular the effect that seeing a cathedral and a crowd for the first time would have on a rural medieval mind.

It's that profound. Entering the Olympic park is exciting enough, as more and more people join a mass all travelling in the same direction, but getting up close to the Olympic stadium is something else. It's immense, the culmination of every stadium ever built, from a circle scratched in the dust to the Colosseum to Wembley, distilled, rolled into one and constructed on the scale of the gods. It's like Karnak with a running track.

And appropriately, it has it's myths. Like the transport system is crowded. Far from it, travel to and from the park was smooth and easy. And that the airport style security would take two hours. All I can say is that I wish security at Gatwick was that friendly and efficient. The troops were fantastic. No doubt about it, these guys seen close up have moved beyond the status of troops and are now officially Warriors, and are obviously enjoying the novelty of having kids wanting photographs with them rather than being shot at by angry bearded men.


The same goes for the police. Most police spent their time lending their helmets to small children to have their pictures taken in. The mounted police horses showed great patience as they were continuously patted and the police were presumably thinking that this was a lot, lot better than a year ago, when people were throwing things at them. Things that were on fire. Even the police snipers on the roof of the Holiday Inn were probably having a good time. I hope they were in a good mood anyway.

Inside the stadium, the atmosphere was such that one suspects that there is actually a noble gas called 'euphoria'. I was giddy to the point of nausea with excitement, the early start and the altitude that our seats were at (second to back row, meaning you don't miss a thing happening on the track or field, or indeed anywhere below cloud level).

The best way to describe the Olympic experience, seeing an Olympian in action? It's like watching your team go a goal up in the last minute of play in the final, it's like your favourite band hammering out the opening chords of your favourite song at the gig, it's being pushed into your seat as the airplane accelerates down the runway, it's pure, unadulterated exhilaration. With added cheering. And it's like that all the time.

The crowd's reaction to the athletes was incredible. As Mo Farah ran his 5000m qualifier, the crowd applauded as he passed and the sound circled the stadium like an audible Mexican wave, for twelve and a half laps of the track, building every time until on the last lap it was a constant cacophony of clapping, shouting, cheering and screaming. Mo qualified and I believe the correct sporting term is that the crowd went bananas.

There were also moments when the reaction of the crowd made one ridiculously proud to be British, like the athlete who pulled a muscle and limped home, helped across the finish line by 80,000 people cheering, or the woman competitor from Saudi Arabia, last in the race, first woman competitor from her country, and the reason the entire stadium erupted as she ran for home.

History was made. To be part of that, to be making that history is a privilege and the crowd knew it and embraced it and applauded, cheered and shouted it. It's no wonder that Brits have been using the word 'proud' unironically.

And when the crowd got behind the Team GB competitors, it lifted them, with Lynsey Sharp in the women's 800m doing the last 200m like a rocket, gifted wings by every raw hand and throat.

Team GB was also much in evidence on the front of every tee shirt and baseball cap and if anyone was in any doubt about who was supporting what team, the Union Flags worn as scarfs, capes or sarongs banished that doubt. Thank God that the Union Flag is such a design icon and looks fantastic on everything from socks to hats, imagine coming from a country that features some sort of fowl as your national emblem. We don't care how well you do in the games, there is no getting away from it that that your flag has a chicken on it.

And to put one argument to bed, rock music + athletics = fantastic! Anyone that has ever run with a running mix will appreciate that the right beats gets the heart pumping, and apparently it goes for the spectators too!

And of course, I had to visit the largest McDonalds in the world. It was...excellent. Oh god, the shame. I've not been to a maccy dees in twenty years but that cheeseburger tasted just the same as it always did (fries were a bit sweeter than I remember though), just as good as it always did, just as satisfying as it always did. Once through the door at the express lane a lovely young woman took our order on a hand held gadget and by the time we had paid it was ready. Out to the garden area, got a seat no problem. The place was heaving but super-slick and rather relaxed. It's also maybe reversed my prejudice about the golden arches that started with the McLibel trial and rolled on from there but now, maybe it's time to start wolfing down those big macs again. I still recall with affection the result of a big mac meal, with a greasy wrapper and that curious feeling of satisfaction and nausea that comes from inhaling 250% of your recommended daily allowance of fat, grease and clumsy slaughterhouse worker.

And the restaurant was great place to take a break, because the Olympic park was home to, what looked like, half of the population of the planet. The were people everywhere, including volunteers (happy to take your photograph) and folk with insulated backpacks peddling beverages - the beer comes in plastic bottles, how about that for a culture shock? No matter, I wanted to bribe one of them to follow me round all day like a mobile mini-bar. Maybe that's the way forward, not one bloke with beer and another with water, but one chap with overpriced beer, spirits and toblerone. And not just at the Olympics either, I think it could catch on in everyday life.

There is a lot to be impressed by when watching athletes that are doing things in front of you that you would normally associate with CGI, but one of the most impressive things is their focus. The pole vault, 5000m qualifying race and hammer throw are all happening simultaneously and each athlete is in a world of their own, oblivious to the incoming wildly thrown hammer or bloke falling to earth like an angel. It's this focus, I think, that makes an Olympian, the ability to separate yourself from the dross of everyday existence. It's probably this same quality that gets you up at five in the morning on a wet winter day to go on a training run.

The Olympic hype began the moment we secured the 2012 games and the build up has been on the hysterical side for months but nothing, nothing can actually prepare you for being in a place which, for a brief period, is arguably the most important place on the planet.

Just to prove the point, the only event that even came close in terms of human achievement this week happened on Mars.

From vine to wine, it's all fine

This has been, in every way, a ripe year for British fruit. The harvest has been bountiful and the fruit itself, taking an invented figure, at least 20% plumper and juicier than average. On the Imperial measure, that's at least one third of a smiling child more than normal and on the Summerisle scale, it means that demand for virgin sacrifices is down one on previous years.

The branches have hung heavy with fruit and the hedgerows were busy with birds at first flitting from branch to branch, then lunging from branch to branch before finally crashing heavily from branch to branch as their now almost spherical forms provided inspiration for any passing app maker. While in the supermarket the bumper harvest brought about by unseasonable, unreasonable but very welcome warm Autumn weather went unnoticed because while more of a product should mean it gets cheaper, rocketing diesel prices meant that transporting the stuff from farm to shop was getting more expensive, it was very noticeable in the fields, in those little roadside stalls you get when you travel the back roads, in the increase in demand for sugar, glass jars and other jam making accessories (jam making kitchens, the crystal meth labs of the English middle classes), and in back gardens.

Especially mine. This was the year that Jeremy, my vine, came good.

Not to say that in previous years he's not tried, it's just that this year he's had help.

Previously, Jeremy has fruited, with tiny buds slowly turning into grapes and those green grapes turning a luscious deep, dark purple (causing me to look again at Jeremy's tag and try to recollect if I had intended to buy a white-wine, sorry, a green grape vine, and had accidentally grabbed the wrong stalk in the garden centre. Of course it may have been that three or four years ago I was going through a red wine phase, which would certainly explain both my choice and my inability to either recollect my intention or to grab the right vine if green grapes had been my intention), I looked on them with pride, turned my back, heard a grey whoosh and turned back to see no grapes and a grape-laden squirrel shooting up a tree, just out of twatting-with-a-spade range.

This year, however, a more relaxed attitude to regimenting the garden has led to the borders growing in a 'wild garden' fashion. The idea was to encourage wildlife such as butterflies and bees, while freeing up valuable drinking time by avoiding excess pruning or trimming. Have no fear though, my lawn has been kept in pristine condition and could, at any time, have been pressed into service as a surface to play croquet, bowls, cricket, polo or, after one particularly close pass with the mower, snooker, on. The move towards wild gardening has led to the arrival of sentinel cats who, apparently, like nothing better than to curl up in the long grass and snooze away the afternoon, watched resentfully by squirrels who are now too scared to enter the garden. Hence the vine has been unmolested and hence there has been a bountiful harvest of grapes.

The cats are tolerated not just because they are even better squirrel deterrent than me running round the garden in my pants swinging a shovel round my head and screaming my dread squirrel-slaying war cry of 'Die Tufty Dieeeeeeeeeeee!' but because they don't crap in the garden. I have nothing against cats in and of themselves, after all, spinsters need love too, but I do have an objection to animals that crap in my garden. Obviously, these cats are fastidious and have decided that nothing puts a cramp in your nap when you are entirely covered in fur quite like poo. This is plainly a view shared by the fox that also took up residence for a short spell this summer, and who could be seen snoozing in the sunshine, moving only when the setting sun threw a long shadow across the lawn and he was required to pick himself up, wander a few yards into the sunshine, and drop down again. I thought for years that foxes drew their energy from bin raids and leftover chicken tikka masala, but apparently they are solar powered. So an uneasy peace reigned in my back garden in the summer of 2011, with the fox, the cats and myself all studiously ignoring one another's existence. I've no idea if the truce will be last and fear some sort of fur, fangs and faeces version of a Tombstone showdown moment next time round.

For this year though, all was calm, the only sounds the uncorking of lunch, the occasional sizzle of a sausage on the barbecue and the sound of my tomato plants, and Jeremy, growing. If ever there was a year for growing tomatoes, this was it. It's amazing that water plus sunshine can equal fruit, and free fruit at that. The things grew even taller than I am, and by August I had had to construct a Heath-Robinsonesque framework of bamboo canes held together with gardening twine to support the vertical and horizontal growths. By the time the crop was done I think there was more bamboo than tomato plant but the result was pleasing not only in the sense of getting free food, but of course the blokish sensation of having built something. The tomatoes tasted great, although the choice to go with two varieties, one that is traditional red when ripe and one that is yellow, caused some early confusion in trying to determine when a yellow tomato is ripe - answer: when it's very yellow.

Getting back to vines though, lets be clear, a vine has but two purposes; shade and booze. In sunny countries, like England in 2011, they are just the job for curling around your pergola or hastily lashed together framework of bamboo canes in order to provide welcome shade. Shade under which one can, if one wishes, set up a table and some chairs, and perhaps serve some cheese, with the wine of your choice. That's breakfast sorted, now all that remains is to call into work with a croaky voice, kick back and make the most of the day. Jeremy is not quite up to this yet, he was curled around my shed instead, but he is up to making wine! With a little help.

I have a friend who makes wine. Well, let me clarify, I have a friend who makes alcohol and alcohol products. To him, nature is something to be washed, peeled, sliced and then put into a bucket with a pound of sugar and some yeast, left in a shed for a couple of weeks, strained, matured in a bottle for as long as his patience can bear, and then drunk. He has made alcoholic drinks out of cherries, pears, rhubarb and, rumour has it, on one occasion a fox that was not quite quick enough after crapping on his vegetable patch. But never grapes. His vine has, mysteriously, always failed to produce grapes, even this summer.

So, I had a harvest of grapes but no knowledge of how to make wine, and he has all the gear and a good idea, but no grapes. So it was that we entered into an agreement, I would harvest and supply the grapes, he'd do all the hard work and we'd split the result half and half.


The process of wine making only fuelled the expectation of the result. I delivered the grapes to my winemaker and left him to undertake the initial stages. This resulted, a couple of weeks later, in a large bucket of grape juice. We then spent an evening straining the stuff into another bucket, while the dregs were retained. My wine buddy had a plan for those. The resulting strained wine juice was added to another bucket, sugar and yeast was added, a mysterious instrument called a hydrometer was used, more sugar was added, the lid was put on the bucket and the whole thing was returned to the shed.


Sheds have featured largely. Jeremy put on a growth spurts this summer and wrapped himself around my shed, while the fruit has turned to wine in a shed. With this in mind, various names for the wine were considered and rejected ('Vin diesel', 'Van Bloody Ordinary', Vin-mto', 'Grim grape') before we settled on the inevitable 'Shed red'. I think that the close involvement of sheds at every stage has leant a certain something to the wine itself, as it fermented away I was imagining that it would have notes of compost, porn and creosote.

Of course, as with all this home made stuff, potency can be a problem. I tried a glass of his rhubarb wine on holiday and lost the power of speech after half a glass, the use of common sense after the rest of the glass and the use of my ability to climb stairs after a second glass. Good stuff. I think.

Come decanting day, we had moved out of the bucket stage, which was something of a relief. While the reality of actually making something usually demystifies the product, and while the sieving, pouring and standing well back as the yeast and sugar got it on was tremendous fun, there is only so much romance to be had from a plastic bucket. But glass demijohns and tubes - this was much more like it.


The resulting wine is actually a rose, a beautiful pink, like the blush of a convent school girl just having her first inappropriate thought about the captain of the netball team. This was rather unexpected considering how dark the grapes were and one wonders exactly how dark the grapes are that produce those really deep red wines, I suspect most of them are beyond the visible spectrum.

I was told by my winemaker that the result tasted like a Beaujolais nouveaux. This would make perfect sense, as that is a wine synonymous with being drunk practically before the corks are hammered into the bottles. The idea for shed red, like all home made wine, is that you make it, bottle it and then forget about it for at least a year.

However, given all the excitement about this vintage, we had to try it. I would say that the result is...interesting. It certainly packs a punch and resembles nothing so much as a light and fruity lunchtime wine crossed with battery acid and the sort of spirit that one buys at a car boot sale to clear your car windscreen of frost, or possibly a home made cure for removing warts, stubborn stains and all traces of life in any awkward family member. Having said that, we finished the bottle.

I believe the correct term for the resulting wine is 'young'. Like all wines it should be allowed to mature and I have to say that putting it away has already improved it tremendously, in that I don't have to drink the stuff. At present, it's enough to look at it, sitting there gathering potency, and feel a warm glow of achievement and not just a little frisson of anxiety about what the stuff is going to taste like in a years time.

The skins and stalks, by the way, were not wasted. Rather, this was used to make grappa. Grappa is, as anyone who has ever shuddered their way to a pulled muscle after sipping the stuff will know, notoriously vile. If it tastes goodj, you're not doing it right. It's supposed to be made of the leftovers when you have made wine and it is supposed to be rough as a mountain goat's arse in Lithuania's goat shagging season. Thus, the bar had not been set high, or had been, depending on your point of view. When the Shed Red was bottled the grappa was still in the bucket stage of the process, so we all trooped out to the shed for a sip. Itw was sublime. I think that served chilled, ideally so chilled that you don't actually taste it, it would actually be excellent.

Reflections on the royal wedding - parties

There was, in the next street along, an honest to God street party, with tables and bunting and a sound system and everything. It actually sounded quite fun especially when, after it had being going for some time and they were getting ready to wind down for the evening, a somewhat refreshed housewife invited everyone back to hers to continue the festivities.

Our own party was a somewhat smaller but no less restrained affair in the back garden. The correct effect was achieved by stringing Union Flag bunting around the garden shed. The garden shed is perhaps the greatest symbol of Britishness there is, and the same can be said of the Union Flag. Combining them more or less went most of the way to restoring the British Empire to greatness, as a bunting bedecked shed stood proud as the greatest symbol of what it is to be British and alive under a perfect sky. Truly a day to pity republicans.

Reflections on the royal wedding - eccentricities

The population of Great Britain is, what, sixty three million and by my reckoning at least sixty two and a half million of them are eccentric. It was interesting to see the crowds that camped out to secure a good place to view the procession, and easy to mock them. Less easy to mock them after the Princes came out to shake some hands and say hello the night before the wedding, which fell into the 'gob smack' category of impressive. Folk queue all night for rock gig tickets or, god help them, new apple stuff and you don't see Mick Jagger or Steve Jobs rocking up to say hello to the crowd the night before the gig. But I couldn't resist the seditious thought that it would be good if somebody was revealed not to be a fan but rather a pervert who liked to shag crowd barriers and had got his knob stuck.

Reflections on the royal wedding - pageantry

It was just a good job that the event itself was so breathtaking. Nobody does pageantry like the British and the sight of trees in Westminster Abby was quite something, as was the spectacle of seeing the horse guards and household cavalry trotting down the Mall, knowing that just last week these same chaps were cheerfully throttling Taliban scumbags.

Reflections on the royal wedding - the weather

Last Friday's Royal wedding gave the British a perfect storm of legitimacy to speculate about the weather, a Big Occasion on a bank holiday weekend. In terms of micro-climates, there was probably very high temperatures around the server that does the BBC weather Internet site as their weather page got more hits than a butt at an archers' convention, combined with a lot of hot air from folk gassing about the weather every time they met.

On the day, the weather was perfect, cloudy in the morning to keep the crowds cool and then, during the ceremony, the sun actually came out. This was because, it was explained to me, God is an Englishman. This actually makes a great deal of sense explaining as it does why so many previously inexplicably ghastly things happen to foreign people.