The joys of the Olympic experience, Newham style
Go Home and Switch on BBC1
I’m no longer a resident of Newham, but I role-played at being one
on Sunday night when I was lucky enough to watch the Olympics Closing ceremony
from the ‘executive’ vantage point of a crap bit of road near the Bow flyover
where a few people were squinting into the distance at the fireworks going off
over the stadium. Why did I watch it from there? Well, strangely enough,
because there wasn’t really anywhere else to
watch it. Sure, there was a park nearby where if you turned up early you
could watch it on a screen. Sure, there were several more places around the
city where you could watch it on a screen. But if you were right there in
Newham without a ticket and not famous at the close of the Olympics, the one
thing they didn’t want you to do was
watch the closing of the Olympics. Not even on a screen.
‘You will not be able to see the end of the
Olympics on this screen,’ the steward in the redcoat boomed out to crowds,
beneath the shadow of the giant M&S logo on the shopping mall. ‘Anyone
wanting to watch the end of the Olympics has to go elsewhere.’
Evidently the screen
had better things to show the residents of Stratford the ceremonies taking
place in the gigantic spaceship of a stadium just beyond the Yo! Sushi. Right
now the screen was serving the viewing needs of the local community by
depicting a spinning Powerade bottle.
‘Hydrating the Athletes!’ it boasted.
Despite the fact that pretty much all you could do at the gates to
the Olympic Park at Stratford was turn up in order to be told to go home again,
a surprisingly large number of people had turned up in order to be told to go
home again. Primary-coloured crowds swished around beneath the weird fifty foot
steel tree sculptures, crashing against the human barriers. Servicemen in
yellow coats chatted and cadged fags. An Islamic march, chaperoned by police,
was protesting the evils of modern society. Beside them a Christian group,
banging on drums, was protesting the evils of modern society. Everybody else
seemed to be too busy getting on with enjoying the evils of modern society to
listen.
‘Gillette!’ it beamed on the side of a nearby towerblock. ‘Nothing
beats a great start.’
A millenarian feel was in the air: people were massing, shouting,
protesting, chanting, advertising. I spotted a bunch of guys walking around
with the words Is Life Just a Game? emblazoned
on their yellow T-Shirts. I went over there expecting a Playstation promotion.
It turned out to a Muslim community group from Tower Hamlets attempting to
convert me to the Qu’ran.
‘Check out the website,’ he said.
‘Yeah, I’ll... Thanks.’
‘There’s a lot more information on the website.’
More and more people were massing at the gate. ‘Please go home,’
one of the stewards - a young Asian guy, east London to judge from his accent -
boomed through his loudspeaker. ‘If you want to watch the closing ceremony, go
home and switch on BBC1.’
He intoned the words wearily as if he thought his soul might
actually collapse if he had to repeat it one more time. I felt a pang of
sympathy for the wage-slave, as well as his colleagues forming a wobbly human
wall behind him. They were actually a surprisingly slack bunch themselves: big
bouncer-like Poles in security jackets, gum-chewing young women, crew-cuts in
shades examining mobiles. Behind them a platoon of bored cops behind them
standing around arms folded, checking texts, yawning into fists.
The guys attempting to convert people to the Qu’ran were now
taking cameraphone snaps of each other.
‘What does God mean to you?’ someone kept saying. ‘What does he
mean to you?’
‘Good people of Stratford,’ another steward was saying through the
megaphone, trying to keep the boredom out of their voice, ‘it will be in your
interests to disperse. You can watch the ceremony live on your TV.’ The
loudspeakers of the religious converts were beginning to sound a lot like the
loudspeakers of the security staff.
A couple of white uniformed soldiers were now posing for a picture
with the Muslim community group. One of the guys held up a copy of the Qu’ran
to make sure it made it into the photo.
I wandered into Stratford itself, the formerly run-down corner of
Newham which, since the games came, had magically transformed itself into a
run-down corner of Newham with a big stadium beside it. I’d heard a lot about
the regeneration legacy – most of which seemed to involve building a huge motorway
bordered by Tetris cubes with incredibly expensive flats inside them – and
evidently it was paying off: even at 10pm the local Poundland was doing a
roaring trade, and the Burger King, McDonald’s and kebab shops were packed to
bursting. I tried to get into a park to watch the ceremony on the big TV
screen, but was told it was already full of people trying to watch the ceremony
on the big TV screen. Wandering down the street I gazed up at the glazed cliff
wall of one of the new Tetris apartment blocks, the flats still furnitureless,
empty. Giant TO LET signs glue pasted on to the side.
‘Thank you for visiting Newham London,’ a sign beamed. ‘A place
where people choose to live, work and stay.’
In the distance, floodlit orange and purple smoke drifted out
through the laserlights. I took that to mean the ceremony had probably
finished.
As I cut back towards the gates people were flooding out, the
crowds swirled, and the stewards with the megaphones were looking relieved they
no longer had to tell anyone to go home and watch it on BBC1. I had to admit
there was something jubilant about the scene: drunks staggering around,
stewards exchanging phone numbers, religious crazies proclaiming the end of
society. I watched the LOCOG redcoats laughing and joking together. They looked
more like a staff get-together at Carphone Warehouse than a security force. Say
what you like about Group Four, it was sort of nice to know the people employed
to keep you out of the biggest public project in recent British history were as
unimportant as you.
As I headed towards the station I passed the Christian group
banging on drums, still protesting the evils of modern society beneath the glow
of the giant M&S logo. A couple of them had evidently got a bit tired and
were sharing a fag. I noticed one of them take a swig of Diet Pepsi before
picking up her Christ is Redeemed sign
and joining in with the singing...
... Then I entered the seething tube terminus where a big mural
showed happy, sporty people of all colours peacefully co-existing beside an
advertisement for Lloyds TSB.
