Games for a laugh

hen Gay Mitchell trumpeted his intention to bring the Olympics to Dublin many moons ago he was laughed out the gate. All over the country, people stuck their tongues between their lower lips and teeth, made the universally recognised, politically incorrect-but-amusing palsied gesture for “severe mental shortcomings” with their hands and went “Unnnnnggghhhh!”. Suitably chastened, Gay eventually shut up about it, climbed back in his box and that was pretty much the end of it. One hopes.

Then again, upon reflection, it occurs to me that those of us who smirked at the lunacy of it all before summoning the men in white coats to take Gay away may have acted a bit hastily. After all, the news that the Irish football team may be forced into the toe-curling situation of having to play future “home” internationals abroad would suggest that it might actually be time to live Gay’s dream and tender an Olympic bid for Dublin.
Once the Games have been secured through the traditional methods of palm-greasing and brown envelopery so beloved of International Olympic Committee officials, Dublin TDs and town planners alike, the obvious logistical problems of staging them in Dublin could easily be overcome by following the lead of the FAI and staging them somewhere else. Like in London.
Sadly, there’s one small problem: The powers that be in London have stolen my fiendishly cunning plan and are currently tendering their own bid for the 2012 Olympics. “The Olympics will bring the biggest single transformation of the city since the Victorian age,” expounded Mayor Ken Livingstone, while the Prime Minister Tony Blair got behind the games by implying – in what has since become known as “the wank gaffe” – that he would very much like the ladies volleyball final to take place near, if not on, Downing Street. Phnarr! Phnarr!
Should London’s bid be successful, it is likely the 2012 Olympics would be staged in the city’s East End, with the main stadium being built in Hackney on the site of what was once the world’s most famous greyhound stadium, and is now east London’s most famous car park and bus depot. Staging such a massive event would provide no end of economic benefits for one of the poorest areas in England, not least for the locale’s drug-dealers who would make life-changing sums of money peddling their merchandise to the participating athletes.
On the other hand, those in oppostion to the bid, many of them locals, insist that staging the Olympics would result in the area losing its character. Sadly, nothing – not even the prospect of seeing Chas & Dave lead a chorus of ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’ at an official opening ceremony presided over by official mascot Jelly The Eel – will convince them otherwise.
They have a point. One can only guess what millions of British and Irish television viewers would make of the American relay team celebrating their victory in the 4 x 100 metres with a few swift halves in the Queen Vic before roasting Dot Cotton and Pauline Fowler down the Albert Square laundrette? (Assuming, that is, Billy Mitchell hasn’t used the Olympic flame to torch it first.)
Regular viewers of EastEnders will also be all too aware that the area of London being
mooted as a possible Olympic venue was built on foundations of family values – unbridled misery, chronic alcoholism, incest, gangland killings, breast cancer and assorted other
dubious plot lines. There’s a good reason for this – such foundations require neither the tools nor building materials that will almost certainly be stolen on a daily basis as soon as any construction company attempts to build a brand new Olympic stadium in the east end of London.
Despite these potential setbacks, London currently leads the betting to land the Games, with William Hill offering meagre odds of 6/4. Of their rivals, Paris leads the chasing posse. The fact that it’s well-served with venues and its games would all be relatively central has been cited as one advantage in the French capital’s favour. More pertinently, however, the overpowering stench of onions that hangs over the city, not to mention the inherent Frenchness of most Parisiens is being used by many Londoners as a stick with which to beat their Gallic neighbours.
Of the other contenders – Madrid, New York, Rio di Janeiro, Moscow, Leipzig, Istanbul and Havana – Rio would seem the most obvious choice. Far enough away from London to spare me the discomfort of having to put up with several years of Olympic inconvenience compared with the usual few weeks, it would also afford the IOC an ideal opportunity to introduce a spanking new discipline: Camera-panning.
At the risk of sounding like Tony Blair, given the choice of watching some spindly white Irish loser huffing and puffing his way to last place in the opening heats of the 1500 metres, or checking out Rio’s scantily clad, bronzed local talent as they samba in the stands in that alluring way of theirs, I certainly know which I’d rather do.
To hell with London, here’s the plan: Let’s bring the Olympics to Dublin, then stage them in Brazil. b