No Farewell to the Olympics: Poor Little Rich Gays Take to the Streets «

No Farewell to the Olympics: Poor Little Rich Gays Take to the Streets

Tuesday 11th September

We remember 9/11.

But do not release the Olympics. Not least because at 9pm last night Poor Little Rich Gays went live to New York for the final of the US Open – and won. Then this morning, with Val, at Buckingham Palace, I gazed on Cullinan 3 and 4 – yes! Granny’s Chips!

No, we cannot say goodbye to the Olympics and will not until: the hymn sheets have been given out and ‘The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, is Ended’ has been sung by the entire Nation in uni.

Followed by ‘We’ll Gather Lilacs in the Spring Again.’

Followed by, according Boris, National sexual congress.

Yesterday I had Missed Call. It was Royston King. Damnation! He was surely underway for the Guildhall Reception for the Athletes – you know he’s on every committee. But suddenly I was out of the house myself.

I took to the streets. I stood at Ludgate Hill, the corner with Farringdon Road and saw it all. Never to be forgotten, to actually be there. Massive procession of athletes, without grandeur, in track suits, coming by on floats so near the crowd. Some reached out and touched. Some held hand-written placards thanking their sponsors. Mo himself looked as if freshly plucked from the tree, so glossy. Or perhaps better a conker the moment it is removed from its casing. Will I ever see again a man so healthy?

Others though- of course you hoped for hot men – but they’re not like the gays in the clubs with their luxury gym-induced physiques. I suppose it’s a strain being an Olympian. Or did they just look as a large collection of English people would look – which was nice. Above all, happy. No mania, nor self-congratulation. Just happy.

I had thought to call up Marmion Beaufleasance. His Royal College was said to be on the route. I could have viewed exclusively from his office. Except the Royal College wasn’t on the route.

So that was two paths to the core not taken by me.

The volunteers have made the Games. We hadn’t known about them, that they would be in all parts of London in their sports beige slacks and purple tops offering help and a friendly word at all times without fail and transforming our Capital entirely into a giant jolly village without crime or anyone being left out. On Monday they lined the procession and organised joke relays to pass the time until the floats appeared, first of all amongst themselves, then for children in the crowd.

Nothing could be further from the Poor Little Rich Gay world.

After 22 floats of athletes had passed, I was wondering what to do when who should appear from nowhere but Merle Barr, former head of children’s services. She’d gone Olympics mad. ‘You must see the fly-past,’ she said. So we wended to Trafalgar Square where, would you believe it, word came through that the Blond Multi was present. At last we found him, bronzed, strapping, leader of men, the only one in a suit, with pointy boots, in a commanding position at the top of the Square.

So, for the very last time, Poor Little Rich Gays were on the streets, mingling with the crowds.