Monday 22nd August 2016

Last week was a week. Sunday I was bidden to a Mahler Prom by those fabulous sporting heroes, Fabien-Boris Claude and Archie Armitage. Normally I can’t bear Mahler (too neurotic) but for them I’d go anywhere. In the event it was fascinating and incredibly intricate. Fabien-Claude expressed great satisfaction with Archie’s arse and legs, passing over the rest of him, although I’m sure, above the waist, his form is a dream many would kill for. But that’s married life for you.

Monday, Harry Rollo gave yet another perf: at the last minute he decided to start at the end. This perf was like nothing ever seen or heard before – to an airie thinness beat – quite at the borderline of existence yet beyond doubt there. Afterwards we repaired to a hotel and Mercury, Mr Kitten ordered chips. The next day they were to board for Firry then on to Elba for yachting. Yes! An American multi yacht lent. Previously, on board the same yacht in the Caribbean,  Harry explained, the cocktail mistress had retired to bed but not before inviting free access to her domain (it’s very strict on board; staff rule over the ocean waves; no wheeled luggage allowed). Harry poured from a bottle apparently labelled ‘rum.’ The others at once threw theirs away; it appeared to be turps or some kind of stripper. But Harry didn’t. He’s never been near a tool cupboard in his life. He drank all his and possibly more. The next day he was not at all well. ‘Oh,’ the cocktail mistress said, ‘that was some hooch we picked up from one of the islands.’ I said Surely she was thrown overboard for leaving it lying about?  But Harry didn’t blame her at all.

Tuesday I went round, last min, to Merle Barr’s and we watched the cycling from the velodrome of the Olympics. The News at Ten was delayed one hour because there were three false starts. The cyclists leapt ahead of the durney (or gurney) – a ridic little motorised bike they’ve got to stay behind until precisely the point it leaves the track. But when exactly can it be said to have left the track? The first time it was a fine call but the second time the German was clearly ahead. Any fool could see. But the judges didn’t have a camera in place to absolutely check or weren’t too sure themselves of the rules – so after much delay it was, ‘Why don’t you all start again?’ Eventually somebody called Jason won and took all his clothes off – or was about to. So at exactly the point it might have been interesting, Claire Balding of National Treasure said, ‘I don’t think we need to see that.’

The next day, at the third Prom of the week, I was telling Prince Dmitri all about it. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘too many medals. It’s getting absurd. How hard it is to ride a bike.?’ Another activity is the Women’s Pushing and Shoving – it’s called Taekwondo. They push and shove for a short period of time with intermittent kicking. Then somebody says, ‘So-and-so’s got a Gold Medal.’ Usually British.

It’s not quite on a parr with winning a five-hour Gold Medal tennis match, having won a lot of other tennis matches to get there, is it?

So Prince Dmitri withered the Olympics. What is to be done? It never occurred to me before that maybe it isn’t that hard. This cycling though – that’s one of our champion sports. It never used to be mentioned. You have to ride your bike fast – big thighs. I think the powers that be chose to make a thing of cycling because quite a lot of people can ride a bike and there was a good chance they’d go faster and faster the more they did it. They all say they have to get up at 5 in the morning for training – but that’s because they’ve got something else to do during the day, like going to school. So you bash on. Two hours training at an unsocial hour. On and on you bash. Eventually you’ll get a medal – for bashing on and being a bit batty, obsessed with gruelling yourself until you can whizz and flash by in a slither of a second less than everybody else. There must be some reward. And it is rather engaging – the eccentricity of it.