EXCLUSIVE: Post Olympic Interview.

Posted: August 19, 2012 in life
Tags: , , , , , , ,

London Capsule

London Capsule (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

After much PR wangling, the couriering of two fruit baskets and a voucher for a VIP experience day in Hemel HempsteaditsAwholeLOADofJD! is proud to present an exclusive interview with the hero of the hour, London.

 

Hi London. Wazzzaap!

 

Hmm. We don’t really say that anymore.

You’re meant to say ‘Wazzzaap!’ Awkward! One thing mate, can you call me by my full name? It’s London Twenty Twelve, actually. Sorry to  be pernickety, but these things add up. First they forget my name, then they forget to not wee in my streets, you know?

 

Sorry. God, no, I’m sorry. I’m all  a mither at the moment. I’m not  quite myself.

 

I was going to say. Yeah! Slightly overwhelmed, I’ll be honest. A year ago, Croydon was burning. How to describe it… It felt like cystitis, but with added mild peril? A sort of political rash that spread quickly. Which was embarrassing in front of Paris and all those guys (never tell New York that boys are looting your carpet shop – word to the wise, you’ll never hear the end of it) and made me a little bit nervous about the Olympics. But, touch wood [raps skull with massive fist made of Docklands Light Railway] it’s all going OK. In fact, I’ve prepared a little spoken-word poem about it which I’d be honoured to read to you. [clears throat, Thames gurgles] “Smashing/Dashing/Boris, Bashing…”

 

Sort of pushed for time. Maybe email it to me? Sure. I’ll send over some of my witty topical cartoons too, sort of sideways glances at Europe. And my showreel, which features the skit about social networking I wrote, directed and performed in. I just want to make the most of “now”, you know? It feels like my time has finally come. People have stopped whining on about my gun crime and expensive transport – people are really into me! I’m like a Middleton-arsed Beckham, a Beyoncé with wings. I feel like  I could do anything! [punches air, brings rain] Screw you Birmingham! Michelle OBAMA‘s here mofo!

 

You’re on fire! Too soon, dude. My Tottenham’s still scarred. But yes, this’ll show all the haters. I’m like that really fit one they use to publicise Guardian Soulmates on the homepage: I’ve been plucked from virtual obscurity to represent the entire world. And, aside from the free lollies and extra buses I laid on, absolutely gratis, did you notice the little added extras I slipped in?

Like what? Like slipping a trace of Valium into the water supply so everyone feels better? Like delaying the apocalypse until after summer? Like turning Boris into a blond piñata? To be honest, the idea was to keep him up there for 24 hours during a freak snowstorm, but “health and safety” intervened. I hate that duck.

 

But this won’t last forever. After the Paralympics you’ll just be… London again. What are you trying to say? That after everyone goes home, things’ll go back to how they were? That the comedown starts now? That the streets will go silent once more, and the only person still whooping will be that girl doing fire poi in Victoria Park at dusk? And she’s been whooping since 1996? [sighs deeply, families boating on the Serpentine speed forward half a mile] I’ve been trying so hard. My queue barriers were immaculate. People were high-fiving the sky. Sure, the West End was quiet, but that wasn’t entirely unplanned. Topshop needed a break. Too many girls in printed leggings. Too many boys in low-cut tees.

 

So what next? I suppose,  I suppose I’ll just… have  a rest. Watch some box-sets. Do my eBaying. Polish  the Gherkin. Wait for,  you know, something  to happen.

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