And now, the end is near...

Ne pleure pas parce que c’est fini, souris parce que c’est arrivé

I saw the above line on Facebook just before I headed off to my final shift. I’m not entirely sure why it was in French, but it seemed pretentious, emotional and, well… right. Like me.

I’m tired, aching, I want my own bed, my suitcase is full of grass, yet weirdly, I don’t want this to end. I genuinely expected that I’d have packed it in by about Day 4. I know I’m not a quitter, but it was always bound to be a challenge- not just the volunteering, but also the camping.

Partying with the Irish

Yet it’s been the best fortnight of my life, all told. I’ve met so many great people, spectators, volunteers and campers alike, and I feel like I’ve been part of something special, something that makes me part of a group that will be recognised for years. Christ, I even hope there’s some sort of a reunion. For those of you that know me, this probably seems like an uncharacteristic outpouring of bonhomie, devoid of cynicism. But it’s been fantastic. After Venue Specific Training ( http://myolympicdiary.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/venue-specific-training-too-tedious-to.html ) I lay in bed pondering whether to delete my application. Now I can’t imagine having ever doubting the Games maker experience.

Our final shift was unlike any other, really. We were left to man probably the quietest section of the entire venue, without a team leader. It was almost like, after nine shifts, they felt we didn’t NEED someone to tell us when to take a 45 minute break! Imagine the anarchy! It was like a dog getting into the school playground mixed with two footballs on the pitch mixed with having a supply teacher. Anarchy.

Inspiring a generation

Or not. It was beautiful. The sun shone, we clocked off three hours early, took an hour for dinner, joked and partied with the Irish following their first gold medal (that of Katie Taylor) and generally just saw out our final shift in the most pleasant manner possible. I even allowed myself a smile when someone muttered ‘tit’ under their breath as I directed people using the Usain Bolt pose.

It was also the day I raised the celebrity spotting bar quite high, seeing John McEnroe, John Inverdale, Princess Anne and Sir Clive Woodward. Seeing Niall from One Direction was probably more impressive to you philistines, but never mind.

Finally, thanks to everyone who has visited this blog. The number of views has gone up pretty much every day, far surpassing my expectations, and I’ve had lots of nice comments. Gilbert and Sullivan even mentioned something about turning this into a musical, but they wanted Noel from Hearsay to play the role of me, so I declined their offer.  

So yes, 10 shifts, 14 days, one member of One Direction, lots of fun and approximately 1476 memories in the bag. As I did the final Prince Regent-Canning Town- Waterloo-Twickenham journey, I wondered two things…

1) Is it possible to learn Portuguese in four years and volunteer for Rio, and

2) If the Kazakhstani government get hold of this blog, will I have to seek refuge in an Ecuadorian embassy?

Kazakh Attack

8th August

Regretfully, I don't know much about Kazakhstan. I’ve seen Borat, and that was shit. I’m never going to go there on holiday, and I couldn’t even point it out on a map for you. If you need any more reasons as to why I may not be entirely enamoured to the country, read on.

Today was the toughest shift of all by some distance, which isn’t a particularly challenging barometer, but even so, it was hard. 99% of the people I’ve dealt with have been fantastic, and hopefully my removed cynicism and new-found love of the Human Race has been conveyed in the previous blogs. However, there must have been something in the beer tonight. Alcohol, most likely.

Case Study One: The Frenchman

Me: ‘Ah yes, Row 29, you’re at the back there. Have a good evening. Go on, Row 29. No, that’s not Row 29, that’s Row 16- it’s a sell-out, would you move? OI!’

Pepe Le Pew: ‘I… Don’t…Speak…Eeeenglish’.

Now, most would be phased by this. But I am a man who has studied French from the days of Moustache the Naïve Young Cat in Year 7, up to AS Level, with Moustache the Clinically Depressed Teenage Cat With No Career Prospects.

Me: ‘Vous avez besoin de monter l’escalier, votre billet dit… vingt-neuf.’

And that was the last we heard from Pepe Le Pew. Ed 1-0 France.

The second diplomatic incident of the night was somewhat less straightforward. If I didn’t know that sometimes people are simply belligerent arseholes, I’d opine that certain nations were attempting to sabotage the Olympics through sheer jealousy.

Three Kazakhstanis were sat in the wrong seats. This sounds like the start of a very bad, very politically incorrect joke. In some ways it is, but bear with it. One simply didn’t have a ticket. When I asked to see their tickets, they looked at me, laughed, and carried on watching the boxing. I was fully aware that if I pushed them too far, I could end up with a horse’s head in my bed, but I carried on telling them to move.

Then, the beauty of our nation kicked in.

Informing the world of my distaste for Kazakhstan

‘Oi. Russki. The kid said move. Now farking move’, a chirpy Dick van Dyke type offered.

‘It ain’t one rule for you, now facking piss off’, remarked Sid James, in between laughs.

I think, if required, I’d have had a whole army of pissed-up Londoners ready to go into battle against the Soviet Union for me. As it was, there was no noise from the Russki boys, escorted out by the security contractors. Incredibly, according to the National Bureau of Statistics, this was the first useful thing they had done all Olympics.

Once more, a crowd of Mongolians tested my patience, entering without tickets, but by this point, I was ready to take on the world.

Backed, of course, by the greatest nation.

Ours.

Ding-dong at the Ping-pong

7th August

I’m not quite sure how I’ve ended up with only three shifts left. Time’s flown by.

I’ve become quite spoiled in terms of wanting the plum jobs. I think the fact I’m a volunteer, coupled with my delusion that without me, the entire thirtieth Olympiad would collapse like the Roman Empire, has led to me refusing to do any jobs that don’t involve failed popstars or watching sport.

Heavy stuff

Unfortunately, my internal hissy fit did nothing to prevent me being put on the most dull of dull jobs; checking accreditations right in the depths of the table-tennis arena. China vs Japan- a ding-dong in the ping-pong.

I did my best to cause diplomatic incidents on two occasions in order to spice things up. Firstly, I refused the Japanese silver medallist entry to the doping area (she didn’t have the right pass), and secondly, when I wouldn’t let a Russian/Kazakh/Soviet into the lift (same reason).

I don’t speak Soviet beyond a loose grasp of the works of Chekhov, but I’m willing to bet quite a lot of Roubles that he swore quite rudely at me. I’ve never been sworn at in a foreign language, but it’s infinitely more terrifying and rumbling than being called ‘dick-head’ by a spotty English chav. I thought he might have been putting a hex on me.

I also managed to get close to a gold medal, something to tick off the bucket list, along with meeting one of One Direction. Quite an odd feeling, as for about fifteen seconds it felt like I was at the epicentre of a world. Admittedly it was the table-tennis world, but still.

Balls to the Official Partners

There’s a running joke amongst volunteers about the Official Partners, and I briefly, in a moment of anti-games maker rebelliousness, blew the corporate world apart when I strode manfully into a KFC and ordered a Pepsi to go with my food. I was still in my uniform. Bold as brass. The cheek of it!

#DoWhatIWant

Soft fruit

6th August

Do Not Accept Soft Fruit

Tonight, as I slept, all I could see were red crosses, green ticks, and all I could hear was the official Olympic Stephen Fry voiceover.

For today I was a ticket scanner.

It left me with RSI in my right thumb and a sore jaw from smiling sweetly at chancers who had ‘accidentally’ turned up to the wrong event.

It had its perks, admittedly. A spectator gave me a strawberry. I was later hauled in front of a disciplinary panel for breaking Rule I of the Games maker manual- Do Not Accept Soft Fruit from Spectators- and a fat woman declared she ‘liked the look of me’ when deciding which ticket lane to go in.

We’ve had many different team leaders in our roles, and they fall broadly into one of five categories:

1)      The David Brent- my favourite, simply for comedy value. Expect high-fives and an offer that ‘we should all go for a drink’. I encountered a gem of a Brent at the campsite, who said that ‘if I walked, out, I’d take half the team with me, I’m sure.’

Also likes to remind you that he/she has run teams ‘fifty times bigger than this’ in the past.

2)      The Headmistress- polar opposite to Brent, will probably have her glasses on a string. Won’t engage in any chat, won’t keep you in the loop, will hate your guts but like everyone, will say how ‘fantastic’ it has been to work with you. Will call you by full name, no nicknames accepted.

3)      The Sergeant Major- SAYS EVERYTHING IN BLOCK CAPITALS. Tough nut to crack, but once you’ve earned his respect, expect a reassuring wink during pep talks. Woe betides any spectator who disrespects his/her team members.

4)      The Flapper- prone to breaking down and disappearing during peak times. Once his/her shift is finished, won’t offer any assistance to spectators as they will most likely be exhaling into a paper bag.

5)      The Great-Aunt- Gives out sweets on shift (Cadbury of course) and when she says she hopes to work with you again, you better believe it. Endeavours to learn your name and lets you clock off four hours early to make sure you get home in daylight. London is nasty, you know.

Yanks

5th August

If the spiders, the aeroplanes or the main road don’t kill me through lack of sleep, the incessant heat bearing down on my tent will.

This is how close my tent was to a main road

After the anti-climactic nature of the dull judo shift on Friday, tonight’s shift was probably one of the best. I was back in my new home, the boxing arena, with Irishman JJ Nevin and Luke Campbell’s reception probably my new highlight of the entire Games. Having said that, each time I step outside I seem to find a ‘new highlight of the entire Games’, so I should probably stop trying to measure my happiness.

Yesterday’s crowd, despite this bizarre insistence from many members of staff that boxing fans are degenerate apes that we should ‘watch out for coz they’ll derail the Limpicks otherwise’, was one of the most pleasant I’ve seen. Far nicer than the judo crowd. Those judo fans would give Millwall a run for their money. I really think that Britain has portrayed itself in a fantastic light during the Games. We’ve become a great Party Nation, an emotional nation, a friendly nation, but above all, a nation with a sense of humour. I think smiles and jokes on both sides, volunteers and spectators, have gone a long way to placate the crowds and cover the cracks in our lack of knowledge of arenas, sports, toilets and food outlets.

Also, at the end of the day, why would you want your lasting memory of London 2012 to be a sour one?

‘Yeah, I loved the Olympics, especially when I had a fight with that lanky Games maker with the stupid hair cut over where the toilet queue finished’. That would be silly.

Speaking of once-in-a-lifetime opportunities, I SAW NIALL FROM ONE DIRECTION. HE SAID HELLO. I’M PRACTICALLY A DIRECTIONER NOW.

Having seen Noel, Preston and now Niall, I feel I should take it upon myself to form a supergroup, with Bradley from S Club, Howard from Take That and maybe H from Steps.

A Yank annoyed me today. So far, my xenophobic nerves have been more or less untouched, (Noel from Hearsay is Welsh/Satanic), but as I was getting on the Tube, this fat (what else?) American thrust his fat hand out and said ‘HEY BUDDY, I GOTTA GET OFF BEFORE YOU GOTTA GET ON GOTTA’.

Damn Yanks and their over-usage of gotta.

Reflections

4th August

Woke up wondering which great from the world of culture Noel was planning on bastardising next. Elvis perhaps. James Joyce. Lemal from Kajagoogoo.

It was my day off so I allowed myself time to reflect as I sat and watched Super Saturday in Canary Wharf. I cried awhile as Brit after Brit picked up medal after medal. It’s a good job I have little intentions of ever winning a gold medal, as flash flood warnings would have to be issued worldwide.

I’m halfway through my shifts now.

The best week of my life.

Canary Wharf- former stronghold of the Daleks

I was so sceptical and cynical when I arrived, I fully anticipated walking out after two or three shifts, in a blaze of glory, overturning touts’ trestle tables and quoting passages from the Bible. It’s just been brilliant though. Everyone I’ve worked with, dealt with, worked for, have been like-minded, lovely people. Not happy-clappers, just people who really couldn’t believe their luck, with regards to how the whole process was turning out. Cynical people, no doubt, like myself, who have found themselves on the crest of a wave, carried by each other, spectators, Team GeeBee, even the press who apparently can’t praise the Games makers enough.

(I appreciate this blog has been lacking in humorous drive and has become a little bit worthy, but I need to eat humble pie. My early blogs, rip them up. Throw them out. I was wrong. This Olympics. It’s incredible.)

Noel

One-way ticket to Hell itself

3rd August

Very little happened at work today. I had a run-in with a Frenchman who was averse to the fact that ‘zee London 2012 logo is everywhere’ (yeah, and don’t you forget it, mon ami), but other than that, it went without much to note.

This entry, therefore, will focus primarily on my trip to see We Will Rock You with Noel from former manufactured pop band Hearsay.

We Will Rock You tells the story of the Shakespearean rise and fall of Hearsay, from the early days of Popstars to the Kym Marsh fall-out, and their instrumental but often untold role in the development of music. One thing that is often overlooked in the analysis of Hearsay’s legacy is their part in the destruction of one of the world’s most popular forms of entertainment.

Music.

Hearsay were fine as a group of individuals. Think England’s 2006 World Cup squad. Kym, Danny, Suzanne, Myleene, all great people, but Noel from Hearsay, he was the real problem.

Tweet from Noel the night of performance. Clearly I was too angry to notice he'd 'dryed'.

He was bland. And a popstar can’t be bland. Leek and potato soup is bland- it’s nice, but it can never be more than that. It is just soup.

Pure and simple.

Now I’m not implying that Noel from Hearsay is an unpolishable turd.

But he is.

Of course, We Will Rock You has a dual meaning, cleverly intertwined by writer Ben Elton. It’s about the fall of another band, Queen, down to manufactured bands and people like Noel from Hearsay. You can see this sad irony is not lost on Noel from Hearsay. Not only has he caused the death of music, and arguably the destruction of mankind, but he’s now butchering Freddie Mercury’s Greatest Hits. I’m not suggesting that Noel from Hearsay has gone out of his way to find the easiest way to convey a calculated insult to the dead.

But I think he has.