Golden days before they end,
Whisper secrets to the wind
Your ['lympics] won't be near you anymore.
All the rainbows in the sky
Start to weep and say goodbye
You won't be seeing ['lympics'] anymore.
Good old Roy Orbison, he could belt out a great number with the best of them. I have taken liberties with his lyric but I just wanted to express my 'joy unconfined' that the whole wretched, over-blown, over-here, huff 'n' puff has finally ended. Well, except for today's superfluous parade upon which I trust the gods to pour their scorn, and their rain, as a sign of their displeasure at all those ridiculous bread and circuses. The entire fandango has cost us all a fortune for absolutely nil return but happily the 'onlie begetter', Mr. Tony Blair, will not feel the pinch. That doyen of the utterly useless millenium dome has just earned himself £1 million an hour for arranging a 3-hour meeting between the warring boards of two mining conglomorates wrangling over a merger. Instead of a parade of athletes today they should drag that wretched man through the streets in a tumbril!
Sorry (well, not really!) to be such a grump but I have loathed and despised the entire thing. I don't trust any of the so-called athletes and as for those jumped-up, pampered panjandrums who run the circus, in my opinion if Londoners had any gumption they should have lined the routes of those 'Zil lanes' and hurled rotten veg at them as they swept past. Anyway, now we can all return with a sigh of relief to a nice, honest, sporting contest in which the participants are young men of the finest character imbued with all that's best in honourable sportsmanship, I mean, of course - footie's back! Sorry, did you say something . . . ?