Magwitch

28^th July

Saturday. You wake up to the sound of the main road, and the Heathrow fly-path. This is dystopia.

I spent the morning watching the Road Cycling go up Twickenham High Street and cheered on Team GeeBee with my new-found lack of cynicism. With the Queen visiting Worcester, the Torch Relay and now this, I’ve spent more time waiting on kerbs than David Pleat. The difference being, I’m not looking to pick up prostitutes.

The weird thing about being on a campsite with no wi-fi, limited television access and nowhere to buy newspapers is that although I'm only ten miles from the centre of London, I have no idea what's happening in the Olympics. I'm not sure whether this blissful ignorance is a good thing. The road cycling is probably the only sporting event I've been to where I had no idea who won when I left the venue. Apart from when I went to the darts and was too pissed to remember/care. 

For now my repugnance to him had all melted away, and in the hunted, wounded, shackled road cyclist who held my hand in his, I only saw a man who had meant to lose to Cavendish, and who had felt affectionately, gratefully, and generously, towards me with great constancy through a series of years. I only saw in Alexandre Vinokourov a much better man than I had been to Cav.- Charles Dickens, Great Expectations. Or something.

It turns out a Kazakhstani former drug cheat won. I’m unsure how I feel about this Magwitch-type figure, doing his time and coming back a changed man. Every time I side with him, I remember the emotional turmoil that Pip Gargery went through to steal the file, and then I wonder whether remorse is ever enough.

Kerb-crawling- Olympics style

Went to a Wetherspoons where they were showing some non-descript rugby game. I tried to rouse the other people in there into revolt, but they seemed oblivious to the Olympics, and indeed any other sport. Weird.