Is it really worth this?

Another example of religious ideology driving people to do stupid, evil things in the news at the moment. Sometimes I despair of it, I really do. This poor girl is the latest victim of zealotry, with extremist reaction leading to threats to burn Christian homes - religious fervour once again being used as a wedge to divide people.

I've heard, and understand, the responses to my problem with theological extremism. It's not religion, it's people that are the problem. Well, yes. Of course - but would the response to some perceived slight in any other walk of life, any secular insult, provoke such a reaction? Remove the ideology, and you remove a stronger reason for hatred than any other I can think of.

I am, once again, reminded of the great quote from Mark Twain - a man who, despite being a Christian himself, saw religion and what it does to people rather more clearly than many of his contemporaries:

"The fleets of the world could swim in spacious comfort in the innocent blood it has spilt."

Let us hope that matters calm down in this instance, before it comes to that.

What say do we have left in our own lives?

I can't, generally, understand what it is that drives people to suicide. I'm fortunate enough never to have found myself in a position where it's even crossed my mind, and of those poor people driven to it, it's often thought of as 'selfish', particularly when it traumatises other people (train drivers, for example). I can't begin to empathise with people so full of despair that they seriously contemplate it, still less actually carry it out.

But the case of Tony Nicklinson offers an insight into the life of a man who has made this decision rationally and clearly. I'm lucky enough that I can't empathise with him, but I can at least understand his reasons and certainly defend his choice. He has, though, been denied that choice by a court. A court which has condemned him to live that life against his will, either because it has allowed concern for the letter of the law to weigh more heavily than human considerations, or for some other reason I can't fathom.

All he's asking is that somebody who cares for him, or a medical professional, be allowed to help him carry out that choice without being prosecuted for murder. But that concern for those he'll leave behind, and the fact that this has been done openly, has worked against him. It seems the law denies us that choice in our own life. The only reason for it, as far as I can see, is to prevent murder being dressed up as assisted suicide, but that possibility exists anyway, regardless of what the law says. There are bad people out there who could do this to somebody vulnerable - that will be a fact notwithstanding the wording of the laws.

Certainly any religious pressure not to take one's own life are outrageous - what right does a theological organisation have, for example, to tell an atheist they must adhere to their doctrine? Even if Mr Nicklinson is a Christian he's living, in his own words, a very real hell - you would hope a benevolent deity would be sufficiently understanding to forgive him his choice. It's also to be fervently hoped that such considerations played no part in the court's ruling.

So let's assume it was down to the law, and no more. If we can't even, in a sound and rational state of mind, take this decision for ourselves any longer, what rights to self-determination do we have left? I sincerely hope, for Mr Nicklinson's sake, that he eventually will be allowed the peace he's after, that he will be free to make this most fundamental of choices for himself.

Closure

Having absorbed as much of the Games as possible, and absolutely loved the entire thing, I was fortunate enough to be at the closing ceremony on Sunday thanks to my girlfriend getting tickets in the first draw, way back when.

She's been volunteering throughout the Games, and has had experiences she'll remember forever; indeed she attended the closing ceremony in her uniform, having come straight from the men's marathon earlier that day. The goodwill and thanks to her and all the volunteers from organisers and public alike where heartfelt and fulsome. I'll add mine - what an incredible job they all did. My missus came home exhausted from long days on her feet, but when I met some of her colleagues they, like her, expressed nothing but admiration for each other and enjoyment of their experiences. Hats off to all of them. My g/f most of all, of course - no doubt she was the best of the lot.

The closing ceremony itself was another exhibition of extreme Britishness, just as the opener had been. I occasionally felt like I was there under slightly fraudulent pretences, given my indifference to music and its pivotal role in the whole thing. But I enjoyed it immensely, as much, I hope, as a proper music fan would have done, and came away from it regarding it as an all round good thing. Spectacular, amusing again, and smoothly done.

Slight criticisms? It could have done with being about 45 minutes shorter - I got into bed at around 2.45am as a result of its finishing time, and bits of it were slightly flabby. George Michael should never have been indulged to perform that second one, a new song that nobody knew, from an album which came out the next day. Absolutely bare-faced, and the audience sat largely still and pretty mute as he performed it. An odd, incongruous few minutes which jarred with the tone of the rest of the show.

Good bits? Everything else. Stomp and Fat Boy Slim being there, both being from Brighton like me, was a particular joy. And I got as close as I'll ever get to addressing one of my enduring regrets - I never saw Queen live while Freddie M was alive. Amazing light shows from the seat-mounted LEDs all over the stadium. Cracking fireworks and some top set building. The beauty of the flame itself unfurling and dying slowly.

It wasn't for everybody, I suspect - I don't know what the vision of a modern Britain was of the older couple from just in front of us who left, no more than a third of the way through, during one of the show's noisier sections, never to return. But for me, yet again, it somehow succeeded in capturing Britain, exemplifying our modernity, diversity, our willingness to poke fun at ourselves.

It was, like so much of these Games was, an absolute joy to behold, and a great privilege to be there. The stadium is absolutely wonderful, and though I strongly suspect I'll be disappointed, it'll be a crying shame if it's handed over to a football club. (This from a die-hard footy fan, by the way - we made a legacy commitment to athletics during the bid process, and should be held to account for that commitment.)

I shall miss the Olympics terribly and look forward with great enthusiasm to seeing some of the Paralympics live. Evidently I'm not alone - more tickets have been sold for the Paralympics than ever have in the event's history, with those Games on course for a sell-out.

Truly, the British have shown, and are showing, the best of us to the world these past weeks. Can we take that best to heart for ourselves, I wonder?

A once-in-a-lifetime privilege

Last Saturday has already gone down in the annals of British sporting history, with gold medals all day, but particularly the three in the Olympic stadium in one dazzling 45-minute spell in the evening.

This was, for me, the day that I got to use the only tickets I'd been able to secure, for a morning's handball in the Copper Box. Taking the advice, or rather the dire warnings, on travel and getting to the venue early, I was up at six to meet my mate and head up to the park. The travel was, in fact, a doddle, as was getting through security and into the park. Friendly and efficient welcome, everybody chipper and a state of happy expectation. A slight hiccup when one of the many volunteers greeting crowds from vantage points on the top of step-ladder high chairs, on spotting a Belgian flag, yelled, "Good morning, Germany!" through her loudspeaker. Never mind - in keeping with the general atmosphere of goodwill, they took it in good heart.

Excitement grew pretty quickly after getting our bearings; I even posed for a photograph - willingly - in front of the Olympic Stadium, with a union flag. Anybody who knows me will realise the double-rarity value of such a thing. So, we headed to the Copper Box in plenty of time for the couple of games we were to see.

We saw a valiant GB side, put together from nothing in the past six years to compete at these Games, get handed their usual thrashing, and then saw South Korea v Serbia. A couple of hours very well spent in a cracking venue, with a loud, positive crowd really getting into both games. Handball is a game I've always thought would go down well in Britain if it were played to a decent standard, and it's been one of the success stories of the Games.

The rest of the day, though, was genuinely one of the great sporting experiences of my life. My mate and I spent the rest of the day and all evening in the Park, sitting watching British successes on the two huge screens they've put up there. All around were noises of cheering from the huge main stadium, from the hockey stadium, the basketball arena and around the screens themselves. As darkness fell and the big stadium filled up, partly emptying the park in the process, those without tickets to go in gathered in front of those screens and saw those three golds in quick succession. For all of them, but for Mo Farah in particular, there was jubilation. I saw, and felt, national pride without it spilling over into jingoism, and no trouble. It was an entirely positive experience. We left just as Jessica Ennis was receiving her gold medal, hearing the 80,000-plus in the stadium singing the anthem as we made our way out.

However much I was enjoying the Games already, nothing had compared to that Saturday. I have, needless to say, sat up late into each night since, trying until the early hours to secure tickets for anything else, anything, anywhere, without success. With so little time left I've basically given up trying now, and must instead look forward with huge anticipation to the closing ceremony, which I'm lucky enough to have a ticket for through my girlfriend.

With just four days to go as I type, it's been a huge success so far. They've ballsed up the ticketing, as I predicted in a much earlier post months ago, and they've ballsed up the mascots - in the Megastore in the Park, ranks of forlorn Wenlocks and Mandevilles sat unsold, while this new lion thingy which has appeared lately was flying off the shelves - but they've got the Games themselves right. Throw in a British public which, both in the excellent volunteers and the vast, positive, celebratory crowds, have switched off our innate reserve and pessimism for a couple of weeks, and you've got an absolute bloody marvel.

Absolutely loving it so far...

I'll come back to the tickets later, but now's not the time. The Olympics so far have been nothing short of wonderful so far, with huge, enthusiastic crowds (80,000 people turning up for a morning session of athletics mainly comprising heptathlon heats!), cracking venues and British success. Two people, in particular, caught my eye today. On a day when we won three further golds to go fourth in the medals table, a couple of bronze winners stood out for me.

Firstly, Rebecca Adlington. Winning a bronze in the event she won at Beijing, I think expectations of her were hugely over-inflated. Interviewed after today's bronze-winning swim, she apologised to everybody who thought she'd take gold. What the hell does this woman, who's won four Olympic medals for Britain, have to apologise to anybody for? She is an absolute heroine who is rightly feted, and owes the fans and her country nothing. Congratulations to our greatest female swimmer of all time who, far from saying sorry, can hold her head up wherever she goes.

Secondly, Alan Campbell. This shows how much effort he had to expend in winning his bronze, and how much it meant to him when he collected it. That somebody can drive themselves to such extremes of endeavour, and react so emotionally when they're rewarded for it, shows just why people love the Olympics so much, even with all the attendant corporate zealotry and occasional cheat. Oh, and the ticketing. Like I said, I'll come back to that later.

A very British affair

Give one man the task of defining Britishness in three hours to the rest of the world, and asking him to do so in a fashion that won't leave everybody thinking, 'yeah yeah yeah, but it was shit compared to Beijing', and you've given him a hell of a bloody job.

Danny Boyle is to be hugely congratulated, and probably honoured in time, for the show he put together. We couldn't do the type of thing Beijing did - we're not that sort of country, we're not that sort of people, and we certainly can't throw the kind of money and resources at it that they did. He'd made it clear this was to be a celebration of British culture, particularly music, and an inclusive ceremony, which it certainly was.

There were moments, of course, that must have entirely baffled the rest of the world - indeed, the first thing I did when I came back from the friends' house where I'd watched it was check out some of the reaction from the Washington Post, the New York Times etc. They freely admitted that, even with their crib notes, some of the sections, particularly during the history of music bit, left them baffled as to what the hell was going on. But in anything that British, that was inevitable - giant-headed punks on bouncy metal legs moshing to the Sex Pistols - you don't get that in Atlanta or Beijing.

There were moments of great beauty - if there's been a more splendid torch lighting at one of these ceremonies, I can't remember it. There was some excellent comedy - I can't stand Mr Bean, but his little moment during Chariots of Fire was genuinely funny.

Surely, though, surely, most notable was the moment that left me at least gaping in shock. It's her. No, it's not her, it's a look-alike. "Good evening, Mr Bond." Fuck a duck - it's the bloody Queen! In a Bond film! An unbelievable moment, and I can't be the only person who wondered who first pitched that to her, and how. Fair play to her for agreeing to do it.

In the end, though you could never expect us to compete with the Chinese for spectacle, I thought Boyle recognised that and realised it had to be different. The only thing which went noticeably wrong was McCartney's apparent inability to hear his own monitor and ballsing up the first few bars of Hey Jude. I suspect Boyle would have taken that if he'd been offered it at the start. Ultimately he, and all the volunteers and performers, did us proud on this most British of evenings.

Similarly British was the bump with which we've come back to Earth on the opening day of the Games, of course, with the cyclists who did Britain so proudly in the Tour de France unable to dominate the road race with just four men and no other countries prepared to work at the front of the peloton, and Cavendish's medal hopes disappearing once again. A great shame for him, and we finish the first post-ceremony day of actual sport without a medal*.





*That's medal, the noun. It's not a verb - I repeat, NOT a verb. Don't even get me started on that...

The great Olympic countdown

It's almost upon us. The actual sport starts tomorrow, even before the opening ceremony, which my mole inside the stadium for last night's rehearsal declared 'awesome'. Boris Johnson's voice is umming and ahhhing from great speakers at London railway stations, burbling imprecations to walk or cycle. Various unions have completed their strike ballots. We're ready.

Ready too, are the missile installations apparently sitting on buildings near the Olympic park. I think we all thought that they were there to deter, or even bring down, terrorist attacks. But another thought occurs. Such has been the furore over the policing of the branding of these Games that the Mayor himself has waded in to criticise the heavy-handedness of what he's called the 'brand army', and Locog has felt it necessary to issue a PR 'myth-busting' fact sheet in response to some of the more outrageous stories. So we can all rest easy – you "probably will" be allowed to enter the Olympic Park with a Pepsi logo on your shirt, says Lord Coe.

'Ambush' marketing will not, however be tolerated. Is this what the missiles are really for? "Sir, there's a plane approaching the stadium with a 'Lipsmacking thirstquenching acetasting motivating goodbuzzing cooltalking highwalking fastliving evergiving coolfizzing Pepsi-Cola' banner trailing behind it."

"Open fire!"

Notwithstanding some of the inevitable British negativism around the Games, some of which I understand given the pointlessly excessive brand protection – don't even get me started on the chips monopoly – I am, in reality, really looking forward to them kicking off. I remain convinced, despite loud statements of disbelief from naysayers who believe the opposite is true, that the independent assessment of the financial impact on our economy being a positive one is correct.

And on a more visceral, seeing-the-everyday-reality-of-the-Games level, I'm seeing volunteers daily on my commute. The buildings in the Olympic Park all look great. The sun's out, though that will not last of course. Brad Wiggins' magnificent victory in the Tour de France has further whetted British appetites for sporting success. The beach volleyballers have said that, even if it rains (IF it rains! Hah!), they'll eschew the permitted long trouser and remain in bikinis. Yay!* What more signs do you need that it's going to be great?



*Apparently blokes also play beach volleyball - but who knew that was an Olympic sport?

A licence for violence?

So PC Simon Harwood has been found not guilty by jury of the manslaughter of Ian Tomlinson during the G20 protests on the grounds, it seems, that they believed he'd used 'reasonable force'.

Having been through due process, I have to accept their verdict. But I don't have to bloody well like it. In fact, particularly given the verdict of the inquest last year into the same event which found his use of force anything but reasonable, it's difficult to see how they could come to such a conclusion. It is, frankly, a scandalous decision, particularly in the light of the now-emerging facts* that Harwood has previous incidents of aggression and disciplinary issues on his record as a police officer - more on that in a moment.

The video obtained by the Guardian clearly shows him being pushed while he's walking away from the police. He was also, it seems, struck with a baton, which ultimately caused his death just a few minutes later, due to internal bleeding. Quite how this constitutes reasonable force is beyond me, given that he had his back to the police. The use of a baton seems to be commonplace in the policing of protests which are turning violent, and it does not seem particularly discriminatory at that. Hitting somebody with a baton should be an action of absolute last resort for a police officer, not a standard way of dealing with large crowds when things get a bit nasty. Their tactics, though, seem to be getting increasingly aggressive, with kettling commonplace even if things are peaceful, for example.

This latest development seems to add weight to a fear that a police uniform affords one carte blanche to be violent, without fear of repercussion. It's particularly worrying that a jury could not see this because it seems to offer tacit approval to such tactics, as if the current age of security paranoia justifies such aggressive policing even in the minds of the people who could find themselves on the end of it.

Mr Tomlinson's family have said they'll pursue the matter through the civil courts. Though that may afford them some theoretical justice with a different verdict, it's not going to see Simon Harwood punished for what he's done. He was allowed to retire from the force on medical grounds in 2001 while still under investigation for another incident, before being re-employed by the police, initially as a civilian, and then as a copper, avoiding any further investigation. Bad enough then, that justice was not allowed to run its full course on that occasion. The system for checking applicants for the police service has since been changed.

But this time, the criminal legal process has run its course, and look at the result. Like I said, an apparent licence for violence as soon as you put a police uniform on your back, and an absolute scandal.

*The jury, of course, would not have known this during the trial, and rightly so. But it does say something about the character of a man charged with protecting the public and preserving the peace.

Café con lechery

I've just returned from the usual week-and-a-bit sojourn to the house I'm (extremely) lucky to part-own, with my girlfriend, in the Galician hills. This will go some way to explaining why nothing's been written on here lately. Shall I make another blog entry, or shall I continue to lounge here by the pool and drink beer in the sun? Tough call.

Anyway, spending time at said poolside with a mate who's single has introduced me to the concept of café con lechery, the process of discreetly spotting attractive ladies through one's sunglasses while enjoying a coffee at the bar. Not that I indulged, of course, in such conduct unbecoming an attached individual – I have eyes only for my beloved, and write only to record the process as a matter of anthropological record. Moving swiftly on...

I'm not much of a sun worshipper, preferring the colder months of less sweat and more football, but it was on this occasion a blessed relief, given the wretched weather we've been having in Britain, to have an excuse to actually use the bloody shades for any reason other than to just pretend one is cool by wearing them indoors, for example.

I was struck by the difference in the faces between people here and there when I returned. The Galicians were complaining about having a shit summer because there have been days when cloud has interrupted the usual diet of pure cyan skies and, yikes, even occasional spots of rain! Also, the temperature has dropped into single figures overnight (*gasp*) because the wind has been coming from the north. This is what, for them, constitutes an awful summer. Given how resolutely absent the sun has been from Britain this year, I can only forgive the fact that British faces, by comparison, looked pale, drawn and rather sullen on the Gatwick Express as we headed home.

It's to our credit as a nation, I think, that we put up with this pretty stoically. We are, honestly, world, friendly once the initial reserve is overcome, tolerant, fairly happy and uncomplaining people. But even Brits have to see the sun once in a bloody while. May it shine on us for the remainder of this season, so everybody else gets the chance to indulge in that sunglassed pastime I was introduced to by my mate last week. It's not for me, obviously; I only have eyes for my beloved – did I mention that?

Take any possible situation to its logical conclusion...

...and you get this.

This is, eventually, what can happen when you allow 'ambulance-chasing' solicitors/lawyers to advertise, and begin to foster a litigious culture. So worried are people about being sued that the fear of same, and the desire to avoid it, overtake concern for a person's well-being, maybe even concern for their very life.

As the sacked man, who should be being rewarded, not fired, said, "I think it's ridiculous, honestly, that a sign is what separates someone from being safe and not safe." Quite so, Mr Lopez. The sign does no more than keep his erstwhile employer safe from being sued, and any decent lawyer could doubtless work their way round that in court anyway.

All respect to him, and to his colleagues who have resigned in protest. It may be that, in an effort to protect themselves safe from litigation, the company providing lifeguards for this beach are now unable to keep people safe because they don't have enough people to cover it. How splendidly clever of them.

What a brilliant example of the causality of human greed and stupidity that is.