I hate admitting that I am wrong.
But sometimes there is nothing else to do.
Last night’s Olympic Opening Ceremony was AWESOME. Properly – in the old fashioned sense of the word – awesome. My cynical little heart was smashed into smithereens, and I sat there watching it with fat, proud tears rolling down my cheeks.
It did start pretty slowly.
“Uh-oh,” I said to DorkyDad, at the first glimpse of the meadows, milkmaids and maypoles. “I’m not sure this is going to work…”
But it did work. By the time the Olympic Rings had been forged and were glowing red-hot in the sky, I was enthralled. There was so much to love I can’t even begin to describe it all. Bond and Queenie. Jo Rowling reading Peter Pan. David Beckham in a boat. Mr Bean! Shakespeare, Mary Poppins, and a giant inflatable yellow submarine. CND, Tim Berners Lee, and a great big sloppy snog for the NHS. Wow.
(I’m welling up again just writing this, it’s ridiculous.)
I have always felt more Scottish than British. All the flag waving over the last eighteen months that accompanied the Royal Wedding and the Jubilee made me feel a bit squeamish. But last night acted as a reminder that Britishness is something that has many more colours than red, white and blue.
National pride doesn’t have to be something that is defined or owned by the right. Lovely leftie Danny Boyle (“He’s one of us!” I screeched with glee as Voldemort and the Child Catcher loomed over the kids in their hospital beds. “He totally gets it!”) demonstrated that its okay to have fun, to lose yourself in a big spectacular show for a night, without being so distracted by the glitter and the fireworks that you forget to be angry.
It was bonkers, and brilliant, and I completely loved it.
For once, I am very, very happy to admit that I was wrong.