I was there!

Over one billion people watched the Olympic opening ceremony last night.

But only 80,000 actually got to be there in person – how lucky were they?

Like almost everyone else who applied for gold-dust tickets, I was unsuccessful, so I wasn’t in the audience.  And I didn’t actually watch it on telly either – I had other plans...

At 10pm on Friday 27^th July 2012 I pinched myself hard, but I wasn’t dreaming:  this really was happening, I was right there on stage, in the Olympics opening ceremony.  This was my 15 minutes of fame, and it was truly amazing!

How on earth did I manage to get that opportunity?  

Well, for that, I have to thank the legend who is Danny Boyle, director of the greatest show on earth....

I’ve been a fan ever since I was an intern at the Edinburgh Film Festival, where we premiered his Shallow Grave.  I then heard him talk passionately about Trainspotting at a preview near his native Salford, and knew he was special.  He went on to make the hugely successful Slumdog Millionaire, so I can see why his creative genius was attractive as the choice to direct the all-important opening.

But oh Danny boy, why would you take on the Olympics?  “I don’t like the corporate bullshit any more than you do” I heard him say, correctly judging the country’s scepticism about the dodgy tax deals, sickening self-aggrandisement of the International Olympic Committee, and the likes of junk-food pedalling McDonalds besmirching the world’s greatest celebration of sport.

Neither could he recreate the size or regimentation of Beijing – so he played to his strengths, recruited genuinely enthusiastic volunteers, and tapped Britain’s rich social and artistic heritage.  Also, he insisted on having the freedom to direct the opening ceremony as he wanted, making it a celebration of what is truly good about this country – and what a great job he did!

As the world saw, Boyle’s Britain started as the green and pleasant birthplace of sport and literature, but then gave rise to the industrial revolution and related social movements such as abolitionists, trade unions, and suffragettes.  

He also found much to celebrate in recent years, despite Britain having to find a more modest place in the world order: here the creative spirit which continues to lead popular music came to the fore, as did the revolutionary invention of the internet by Tim Berners-Lee.  And James Bond!

But to parachute straight to the present would grossly underplay the role of our parents’ and grandparents’ generations:  after finally pitting its forces against aggressive imperialism in the world wars, Britain tried to create a homeland fit for heroes.  Not only did this include successfully staging the 1948 Olympics at short notice, but also laying the foundations of a caring and enlightened society with the creation of the much-loved National Health Service.  

Ah, the NHS – probably the most civilised thing about modern Britain.  

So thanks to Danny Boyle for insisting on the NHS having a central place in the ceremony.  This, together with my and Katja’s 25 years of joint service, the brass neck to audition as a volunteer performer, and a willingness to spend much of the wettest ‘summer’ on record skipping round a disused Dagenham car park, means that I can now say “I was there!”.

In truth I was a bit-part player – dressed in a sparkly dentist-style tunic I helped push a hospital bed to spell out the letters ‘NHS’, before performing a ‘nurses knees-up’ (and a little bow to the queen - not sure I should have gone along with that?).  The worldwide audience were likely bemused, but for me it was the ultimate thrill – a contagious excitement in our massed volunteer cast, the buzz of a live performance, a truly innovative light-show, and the deafening roar of the appreciative crowd.

I trust some of Boyle’s intended message got through: that as a rich nation we remain committed to healthcare as a right not a privilege; and that we believe the civilised thing to do is to provide it free at the point of delivery, based on clinical need not the ability to pay.  

For what Bevan coined, let not Cameron put asunder!  That, or we just like to play doctors and nurses.

What more can I say?  Thank you Danny for celebrating what is Great about Britain, for cherishing and promoting the NHS – and for allowing me to say “I was there!”

Desert Island Discs: time to cast away?

During the past few weeks I've been cast away in Dagenham.  I’m not at liberty to say why, other than to refer you to my next blog when it will become pretty clear.

Luckily, the BBC recently launched a fantastic new website archiving every episode of Desert Island Discs from 1942 to the present.  Along with time trecking in from Oxford, I’ve managed to get through pretty much a year’s worth of castaways over the last couple of months – and what fascinating listening it has been!

There’s much to admire about Kirsty Young – her beguiling voice conjures up half-suppressed memories of me failing to concentrate on the content of her tv news presentation.  But she doesn’t just look and sound good – she has a real talent for creating intimacy with her guests and gently teasing out revealing, personal insights. 

The format helps - castaways expect to be quizzed about family relationships, sexuality and beliefs, as well as being invited to reflect on how they would cope on a desert island.

At its best, this is powerful stuff:  Young deftly found Martina Navratilova's emotional sweetspot, not her 29 grand slams or being ‘outed’, but rather undimmed anger at the Communist regime who prevented her family from sharing her first Wimbledon victory.  It was gut-wrenching to hear writer Peter Ackroyd admit he never introduced his partner of 25 years to his mother, fearing her reaction to his being gay.  And I confess that when she expertly coaxed Doreen Lawrence to talk of the last words spoken by a passing stranger to her murdered son (“you are loved”), it was the last time I properly cried.

The music helps the emotions, and provides another angle on castaways.  Surely I’m not alone in spending rather too much of my time deciding which 8 discs I will choose, just as soon as my invitation arrives? 

This delusion wasn’t helped by watching Tom Stoppard’s The Real Thing last week, where the main character, a self-centred playwright, spends most of the play choosing his discs, with a view to making himself look sophisticated and hide his love of cheesy pop – the very act of which shows as much about his vacuous character as any particular track. 

Whilst many guests ask for great but predictable works (Mozart, Beatles…), there are some gems.  The best of the last year has to be the heartbreaking counterpoint of writer Vikram Seth’s choice, the BBC’s 1942 recording of Nightingales and Lancaster Bombers, Recorded in a Surrey Wood.  (It was actually meant to be broadcast live, but a quick-thinking engineer pulled the plug at the last moment, realising that it would reveal the existence and position of the pilots; thankfully the recording remains).

Interestingly, it’s often the random, unexpected details which are most memorable:  we learn that architect Charles Jencks has two handles on each door in his house; Vikram Seth admitted his bisexuality only in an interview with his sister; Terry Wogan has groopies called TOGS (Terry’s Old Geezers / Gals).  And that Baroness Hollins met her partner whilst volunteering with VSO, whilst rugby player Brian Moore is a trained nail stylist.

My least favourite castaway was the slightly crazy historian Paul Johnson, though he did come out with some choice quotes, complaining that “liberals in government always poison the mix” and Jean-Paul Satre was “a very ugly little man”!

And finally there is the sign-off – “Thank you for sharing your desert island discs”, followed by a pause – which guests always fill, often bearing their soul in a few short words.  Listen carefully and it’s pretty clear if they consider being a guest as a privilege or a birthright.

So far so great – but Desert Island Discs is not beyond reproach.

One criticism is that Kirsty Young is too cosy with castaways, failing to challenge them - Hard Talk this ain’t.  I certainly squirmed as the new chair of the British Medical Association, Baroness Hollins – having done so much to speak up for children with disabilities, then failed miserably to criticise the Catholic church’s shameful record on paedophile priests - whilst the presenter let it drop.  And yet when you don’t want challenge – take comedians John Bishop, Jackie Mason or Jonny Vegas – she somehow renders them mawkish and humourless.

Maybe it’s just a bit old-fashioned – after all, it’s been going 60 years, the longest-running factual programme in the history of radio.  Castaways are automatically given the complete works of Shakespeare, which comedian Jackie Mason rejected as “a little ridiculous”.  Personally I think the bible has some good stories and may turn to it if marooned any longer in Dagenham, but comedian Tim Minchin clearly saw the offer as anachronistic in this post-religious society, accepting it only as its thickness would provide ample material for his fire! 

The most worrying sign that the programme is losing its way is its choice of castaway.  Of the year’s worth of guests I heard, there were certainly some interesting, challenging, original guests.  But there was also a good number who I thought not only ‘who are you?’, but also ‘what have you done to deserve this honour?’.

Is this my prejudice?  Here are the facts: of the last 52 episodes, no fewer than 37 focus on the world of ‘entertainment’ (10 actors, together with sportsmen, musicians and broadcasters and rather too many fashion journalists - it’s 42 if you count writers). 

Don’t get me wrong - I very much value the role of entertainers, but they are not 80% of the important people.  Where are the scientists, the businessmen, teachers, and healthworkers, the thinkers, campaigners, public figures?

In conclusion, regrettably, I believe the castaways have lost their way.  With sadness, I feel we should grant David Dimbleby his final, cheeky, luxury – as requested, he can take Kirsty Young with him to his desert island.

Now We Are Three

Nine tails

1.  Foxy, our new cat, not only came completely free – Katja’s friend Caroline also gave us a litter tray and scratching pole!  Of course, there is the modest recurring cost of fishy biscuits and pricey gravel.  And the completely ignored new basket and obligatory outside cat house. And upgrading the alarm system to ‘pet-friendly’ status.  Plus £300 for French-windowpane-with-catflap.  At least vets can’t cost much…

2.       Three’s a crowd, which is good as getting all the attention wasn’t good for me.

3.      Who said cats are selfish? Mice, voles and other vermin-themed gifts are true signs of affection.

4.      Having freed the garden of furry things, now our feathered friends have flown – what good were the chirpy blackbird family, friendly robin or majestic magpies?

5.       I spend the day worrying about the poor pussy, so rush home early to be studiously ignored.  I learn that the course of true love never did run smooth.

6.       Having slept through the day, nightime is for play; hitting the sleep deprivation levels of new parents is probably good practice (or a timely warning).

7.       I can probably live with the odd splash of wee and sick on the carpet.  And whilst the stench of cat poo is throat-grippingly gruesome, Foxy makes it all ok by flicking it with a bit of gravel.  And she considerately keeps it all in the living room, so as not to despoil the garden.

8.       If you love animals enough to let them share your bed, then (if they have claws and fangs) you have to kill other animals to feed them.  How I have fallen from my meatless moral highground that I now actively fund the slaughter industry – a crushing victory over smug veggies everywhere, surely a good thing?

9.       Cat hairs on the table and muddy pawprints on the carpet are kinda cute; and it was probably time to shred those designer furnishings.

Nine lives

1.       No need to call, email, remember birthdays, apologise for forgetting birthdays; a friend indeed.

2.       I’ve lived in a house with mice and creepy crawlies – cats are infinitely better company.

3.       It’s easy to take life too seriously; it’s less of a risk when you open your house to a crazy, playful fluffball pouncing on your slippers.

4.       She doesn’t laugh at my jokes, but she’s very tolerant of my soapboxing (though she knows to sneak under the sofa whenever the obscenity ‘Cameron’ is spluttered).

5.       It is long recognised that pussycats are uniquely placed to deliver the best pornstar names.  Using the accepted formula of first pet + mother’s maiden name, Katja’s is ”Polly Ulrich”, mine “Candy Nightingale” – proof!

6.       No house is a home without the cat; and maybe without kids, in which case this is good practice.

7.       If it really is true that cats take much and give little, doesn’t that make cat-owning the ultimate in altruism?

8.       Oh, and she’s not just any old cat: our Foxy used to be Amy Winehouse’s cat.  Welcome to feline rehab.

9.       Aw come on look - how could you not love her?