My mate has been immersed in the Olympics for months in preparation – in her day job in some sort of sports-related office fancy-pantsery, and then as a member of the anti-doping squad. I’ve had one conversation with her in about two months so I’ve been getting all my information about her experience from Facebook, and now I’m going to violate her privacy by posting some of her photos and her summary of London 2012:
It’s 18 months to go: “I promise you, it’ll be here before you know it”.
It’s 12 months to the day: “I know you can’t actually SEE out of the windows of the bus due to the torrential rain, but if you could you’d see that we’ve made tremendous progress on the Stadium”.
It’s 2 months to go: “Christ! It’s 2 months to go!”.
It’s 1 week to go: “we haven’t got a roof on the doping control station. And there isn’t time to build one..”.
It’s THAT opening ceremony.
It’s saving the surprise.
It’s telling our children’s children’s children’s children’s children about this day. “Some of you will say I watched the Olympics. I’ll tell them I listened to it from outside and I heard a bit”.
It’s four weeks communal living in Bloomsbury.
It’s 3 mobile phones, two radios, a fax, a computer and a landline: it’s safe to say each of us is contactable in venue.
It’s Liam and he’s lost around Whitehall in an armoured tank again – “can you see Buckingham Palace?” “I don’t know – can I?”.
It’s the entire Lancashire Police Force offering to arrest Liam.
It’s continental sevens, CONTINENTAL!! SEVENS!!
It’s Eddie Izzard in his Gamesmaker uniform in French’s DCS.
It’s the daily sight of rows and rows of squaddies asleep face-down on tables in workforce breakout.
It’s six hours, twelve drinks, and 3 partial samples.
(It’s one cavernous bladder)
It’s Peter kicking Bananarama out of our seats.
It’s rakey rakey time.
It’s bongo cam.
It’s only bloody sent another 50 blank text messages, hasn’t it?
It’s 3am, getting chased across town in a London 2012 BMW by irate black cabs.
It’s the Packenham Arms, the Old China Hands, and the Welsh old codgers’ club.
It’s staggering round St James’ Park at 2am in torrential rain with a cooler bag of urine samples.
It’s the cake room.
It’s brassards, epaulettes and blokes’ trousers.
It’s mystery drinks.
It’s dawn again.
It’s either a masturbating neighbour or it’s a ghost, I’m telling you…
It’s possibly even a masturbating ghost.
It’s a waste of time unless it’s an acronym or an initialism (it’s VAHO, VADOM, LOCOG, ROCOG, DCSM, CTL, DCS, DCF, SRF, HGP, BBA…)
It’s “I thought they were just a bunch of drunk welsh blokes in the pub last night; turns out they’re the closing ceremony”.
It’s realising the uniform has actually grown on you.
It’s no breakfast for Lincoln.
It’s “are you touching base regularly with Sport?”.
It’s horse chaos and kamakaze running at Greenwich Park.
It’s “have you considered playing handball? Ask yourself three questions: Can you throw? Can you catch? Can you throw AND catch? Then this is the sport for you”.
It’s Brunswick Square for dinner again?
It’s “I woke up to find all my belongings outside my door, grazed knees but no marks on my jeans, and no mobile phone – just a carefully placed sim card on my pillow..”
It’s yet another McDonalds Gamesmaker pin badge today.
It’s Mr Slammy Slammy/Mr Smacky Smacky/Mr Happy Slappy.
It’s pizza and the 100m.
It’s poisoned tea in the veg tray.
It’s licking squaddies, it’s faceless blue men, and it’s line dancing policemen.
It’s the Russian athletes asking for photos with some berk off The Only Way Is Essex.
It’s parties at Denmark House, and it’s free cheese for hangovers at Switzerland House.
It’s going for a run with David Ferrer.
It’s up in a crane over The Mall.
It’s “DCSM, DCSM, this is CTL. We’re doing the Bartman, over”.
It’s Specht & Smith as Lady & The Tramp.
It’s remembering to write ‘fourth place’ on the athletes’ forms, NOT ‘loser’.
It’s 90 mins sleep a night.
It’s “bump out”, dismantling the venues.
It’s last night, “last” drink…
It’s trying to remember what you used to wear before the aubergine and red.
It’s the Post Olympic Blues.
It’s 14 days until the Paralympics, mind.
(And 1,450 sleeps until Rio)
It’s over, not out