“Who’s that? … on the stage … in the shirt?”
The woman standing behind me prodded my shoulder.
“Can’t hear what he’s saying … but he’s an arse!”
It was about six o’clock yesterday evening and I was sat on a crowded terrace overlooking Millennium Square. The woman behind me had already hinted that my friend was a “gentleman” for giving up his chair. When I’d stood up and gestured to the seat she’d tutted, “Why do you have to be so tall? Nobody can see now.” I sat down again. What the hell was I doing here?
I’d turned up respectably early, met a couple of friends, bought a couple of beers, and settled down to see the show. We’d got a good spot we thought. One table back from the edge of the Cuthbert Brodrick terrace, centrally placed, nothing blocking the view of the stage, we thought we were laughing. Prime seats for the Olympic athletes homecoming celebration.
About quarter past five Martin got more beers in.
Martin had been to London the previous weekend, without a ticket, and was regaling me with stories of unhelpful London Ambassadors, bad organisation outside the stadium, and generally unfriendly Southerners. He’d made his way to Hyde Park and spent the day in and out the Heineken tent watching the proceedings on a big screen, missing his bus home because he’d stayed late for some tennis match. He’s a proper sports fan. Had a great time.
He wanted to know what I was doing here, not being known for my sporting interests. He’d already given me his take on the people at the next table who were drinking coffee – “one cup of coffee, it’s a disgrace. If I were running the pub I’d ask them to leave. Waste of space.” – so I was a bit nervous that he’d recommend I go home and watch it on telly, give up my place to someone more deserving. I told him I was going to write something about it, that I was here because someone had told me this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience and that I wanted to share it, just be around. He nodded at my notebook, “I’ll tell you some stories, just you listen to me.”
I sat and listened to Martin as the crowd gathered.
The terrace filled and by half past five there was no way we could go back to the bar. We sat cradling warm beer, chatting to the people behind us. Or rather Martin chatted knowledgeably and at length while I threw in the odd quip about my complete ignorance of anything Olympian.
The woman behind wanted to know who Cuthbert Brodrick was and for the first time that afternoon I felt useful. “Did he design that thing?” she asked, pointing to the modern structure by the side of the pub, “it’s bloody ‘orrible.”
Bang on quarter to six the event kicked off. I recognised an Otis Redding tune the band I couldn’t see played – “Hard to Handle” was a random but amusing opener, I thought – and watched the crowds faces as the stage was taken by boys dancing with glittery pom poms. Some guy behind me seemed to have a whole boy-dancer-with-pom-pom routine ready for just this occasion and entertained my section of the crowd for a good ten minutes with spontaneous stand up. At least we could hear him. Nobody could make out a word of what they were saying on stage.
At six o’clock we were all encouraged to cheer. We were on the telly I think. Flags were waved and the crowd obligingly raised its voice. There was more cheering when someone thought they heard something about the athletes coming somewhere near the stage.
My section of the crowd expressed a certain amount of displeasure when the Lord Mayor came on stage, introduced as the first athlete, in some kind of back stage bungle. “Get her off,” some wit standing on a chair cried, “she an’t won a medal!” But then some proper athletes came on stage and the crowd went wild, as they say on the telly.
I couldn’t hear much of what any athlete had to say and couldn’t see anything and at one point the big screen died. Martin decided he’d had enough and said he was off. The woman behind started asking everyone in hearing distance, “was that it? … was that it?” The kids who had collected near the edge of the terrace in order to get the best view started messing about and knocked over a drink. I thought it was time to leave too.
I haven’t got a telly so can someone please let me know what that was all about?
So we have not yet perfected the Debordian spectacle here in Leeds. Perhaps we did not spend enough on that new screen!
We talk about civic enterprise but we are increasingly it seems to me to a city of the spectacle, willing to put with all sorts as long as there is bread, and circuses. More than 30 000 Leeds kids living in poverty, but never mind that, look at the gold, see how it glitters, all you have to do is to be inspired enough, work hard enough and all this can be yours….and if you don’t ‘make it happen’, well, you just aren’t heroic enough are you…
We need an Office of Debordian Spectacles! I’d like to be its first Chief exec …
Seriously, I was hoping for something spectacular but left confused and disheartened.
The people around me were not your average Guardian reading, theatre-going types, and they weren’t shy about shouting their patriotism and local pride – I reckon a fair number of the kids you talk about were there too, quite happy to have a party. I’d just have liked a better party.
As you know Phil, I have no problem with parties. But we just need to add something more to the mix….unless, perhaps, we can party our way to a better city….
hmm, I could be leader of the Party party?
No, I know what you mean. As long as better city means a better party I’m with you.
From Phil’s narrative, it certainly doesn’t sound like a Debordian spectacle. More a little half-arsed if I’m reading right. But I’m sure if you asked fifty different people you’d get fifty different analyses of the occasion; you never know, some children may well have been thrilled, inspired even, to see a glimpse of the medal winning Brownlees. Is that such a bad thing? I’m sure there wasn’t much in the way of attempting to keep drugged-up Leeds residents in a continuum of abiding stupor – it was just meant to be a party wasn’t it – you know to celebrate local success? I wasn’t there last night but I was frogmarched to Horsforth the other day by my daughter to have her photo taken by a postbox that just happened to be painted gold. So there’s direct evidence that positivity is emanating from the Games and the efforts of participants.
I can imagine LCC not doing a great job of this, but come on; I’m willing to bet my life there are thousands of people, not just kids, inspired by what other people can achieve – many of whom are from less fortunate backgrounds – which surely should half-satisfy the more Games-curmudgeonly amongst us. Yes, there are very serious situations which need to be addressed in Leeds and indeed, around the UK, but we can’t bring those into everything. Do you seriously think any of that agenda would hit home with all that mixed messaging going on?
And if you’re looking for somewhere to pin the Debordian tag on – I’m not sure you’ll find it at any event run by today’s LCC. Why not take a look in our centuries-old churches and cathedrals? Now those boys and girls knew how to put on a show for the masses.
I agree with Alison (comment below) that everyone there wanted to celebrate the success and share the experience – hell, we wanted to have a party – but it did seem as though we were just stage props for the TV cameras. I can only speak for my little corner but I went with a couple of proper sports fans and they both left early to go watch it in the pub as they couldn’t follow what was going on. And I genuinely went along expecting to be enthused, excited, and perhaps a little elevated, wanting to write something positive and life-affirming about it, but left a bit deflated and not really understanding what I’d just experienced … and ludicrously, what I didn’t mention in the post, I left after arguing for over half an hour with the guy in front of me that we should shut up moaning about the bloody council and concentrate instead on the reason we were all here …
I enjoyed it a lot, but then I got there over two hours before it was due to start and got a seat near the front (3rd row of the punters behind the barrier that separated plebs from athletes’ loved ones). I wouldn’t have dreamed of turning up any closer to the start – there were well over 100 people there when I showed up so I wouldn’t have had much fun. I could see and hear everything, got covered in the confetti and streamers from the glitter cannons, got good photos, made new friends. Had fun chatting to overexcited kids and nans.
I don’t think the event was really designed to cope with any more than about 1000 people and it got more than 5x that. They may have physically fit into Millennium Square and its environs, but that’s about it. Still, there was more than double the Leeds number for Jess Ennis in Sheffield. I was at work, but I would have no doubt have had to have got there first thing in the morning and taken a packed lunch to have a decent experience at that event.
I got there early too and think I obviously chose the wrong place to sit. The terrace was full of football fans (even a guy in a G4S jacket, right at the front, spoiling everybody’s view; talk about pushing your luck.) And everyone was up for a good time.
You are probably right about the organisers not expecting the turnout … and what does that say about us?
Me, my kids, my whole family have loved every minute of the spectacle that was the Olympics, and are really looking forward to Paralympics too. I went to Millennium Square with my son and bumped into my brother and family there. My son is really into gymnastics and my brother runs Wakefield’s triathlon club. His kids are pretty damn good at that running and swimming stuff and know the Brownlees a bit.
So this was our big chance to actively get involved, keep our children engaged with their own sporting dreams, and not just commune via the TV.
But we couldn’t. We sadly could hear too much of the eejit MC but could see very little of most athletes and nothing at all when Lizzie Armitstead and Brownlees came on. We continued to cheer because they deserved our adulation but we went home feeling that we’d been duped into going there just to provide backing vocals for Harry and Christa.
I think this is what that Deborah bloke said years ago wasn’t it? Real life doesn’t count unless we can show it on the box 🙁
You’re right, the crowd were certainly trying to get in the spirit, but it wasn’t made easy for them, was it.
It probably would have been better to stay at home in front of the telly.