Grouse to Glee at the Olympics

In a previous column I had written about how the English are using the 2012 Olympics to practise their three favourite sports: complaining, expecting the worst and cursing the authorities. However, the Games proceeded smoothly, bookended by charming opening and closing ceremonies; security was competent; the weather held up by London standards (meaning no more than a few hours of rain each day); and commuters never found it easier to get to work. But most important, Great Britain won medals. And Britons have suddenly switched from “despondency to delight”, according to George Cohen of The New York Times. The Economist contrasts the pre-Olympics pessimism about “bungling bureaucracy; national humiliation (and) rain” changing to elation as “the country crescendoed, like a table of diners singing ‘happy birthday’ in a crowded restaurant”. And in the Financial Times, Lucy Kellaway writes that her earlier pessimism about the Olympics “was the biggest pile of hogwash I’ve ever written” and she wants to “retract every whiny, ill-judged, scaremongering word of it”.

I wondered about my English friend Henry Smith, the die-hard prophet of gloom, who had whinged to me two weeks ago about how the Olympics was making life miserable for the commuter (as “transport is in shambles: subway plans are an utter chaos and the bus services are in absolute disarray”), the small businessman (who could be “prosecuted and fined for using the word ‘Olympics’”) and the hapless construction job-seeker (because “construction jobs were taken up by Lithuanians, Romanians and Czechs”). I called him to find out if he was also singing a different tune.

“Hi Henry,” I said, “How were the Olympics?”

“Great! Superb!” he cried. “Couldn’t be better!” he added to drive the point home.

In all my years of knowing Herny, this was the first time he had not opened the conversation with a whinge about the miserable weather. “Is it not drizzling?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, it is,” he said, “But what does that matter? The Olympics were fantastic: well-organized and conducted with utmost efficiency… just as I had predicted!”

“I thought you had said they were making a botch of it,” I said.

“No! You must have misunderstood me. Did you watch the opening ceremony? It was superb.”

I agreed with him; then enquired how he managed his commute, with transport in complete disarray.

“The tubes worked impeccably,” he said, “I had gone downtown to watch the women’s marathon and it was like eating a piece of soft cake soaked in ice cream. Which idiot told you they were in a shambles?”

“You,” I said but he would have none of it. He assured me that I must have misinterpreted his words and went on to laud Britain’s performance.

“65 medals in total!” he said, “And 29 of them gold. And not in marginal events but in athletics, equestrian events, boxing, cycling, sailing and best of all, tennis! Murray was in sublime form. He beat Djokovic in the semis and Federer in the finals. I told you this Brit had it in him!”

This wasn’t true. His actual words to me after the Wimbledon finals were: “I’m fed up with this Scotsman. Runner-up is the closest he’ll ever get to glory.”

In a period of two eventful weeks, Murray had been transformed from wretched Scot to conquering Brit. What next? I wondered. Would the 2012 Olympics prove to be the watershed event that changed Brits from dreary doomsayers to wide-eyed dreamers? Would they abandon their pastimes of complaining, expecting the worst and cursing the authorities? Would pride and optimism, unfettered by negative thoughts, get Britain to soar upwards? Would it rule the world again? I tested the water with Henry.

“How are things now that the Olympics are over?”

 “Miserable,” he said, his voice taking on its usual sepulchral tone, “Did I tell you that in the last two months, heavy rain has caused flooding in England? And do you know how our bloody government reacted? They issued a ban on households using hoses to water their lawns. Can you believe it? And the forecast for late August is heavy showers again – maybe that will prompt the government to ban baths.”

As he went on, I thought: perhaps the time for eternal English optimism has not yet arrived.