The Greco-Roman Supporters Club

My frenzied enthusiasm for London 2012 has been building since that triumphant moment when we beat France at Agincourt (sorry - at an IOC meeting in Singapore). When the tickets were released a year ago I applied for every event I recognised, not to mention all the ones that looked authentically Olympian. This meant that Handball and horse dancing were out, but Greco-Roman Wrestling was very definitely in. 

England v France

And it was with great pride that my three ticket-wielding chums and I alighted a cheery Sunday London Underground and headed out to the ExCel centre ('you have checked this is in London haven't you Kate?') for some Greco-Roman frolics. 

We'd agreed on togas. Yet when the strapping army officer chum we'll call Harvey arrived at the Pad holding little more than a stolen towel to fashion into attire, chances of fulfilling our self-imposed dress code seemed slim. We had two pins between us and my bed sheet was sceptical about its reincarnation as an item of clothing. It had just started raining.

It was the weather that sharpened our resolve. We're British aren't we? Bad weather, arts and crafts and living in the past is what we do. By this stage the two of us were holding up proceedings so Harvey and I abandoned all pretences to modesty and trusted our luck to the safety pins. We went to rescue the third and fourth members of our Greco-Roman Supporters Club (GRSC3 and 4) from station and pub respectively. 

Absurd

GRSC4 had adapted the Greco-Roman theme to include a fairground Union Jack hat, facepaint and a Union Jack for a cloak. He looked like a cross between Ronald McDonald and Count Dracula if they'd accidentally fallen into a BNP rally.

Over the wrestling itself, it is best if we draw a veil. Our ignorance - despite much youtube research - was total. There were some truly surprising moves that left us all perplexed that the event had not come with a PG-13 warning. There was a good bit when North Korea fought South Korea ('Who are we supporting?' 'Good Korea obviously') though we didn't quite catch the winner. There was a very small chap who cried when he lost, but the cheering that then followed him out of the building was as heart-warming as it was deserved. 

I'm not going to rabbit on about the atmosphere like some Matt Baker lookalike, but the good-humour and enthusiasm of the crowd (despite the terror-inducing brutality before our eyes) was a sight to behold. Neighbours coveted our union jacks, though no Briton was represented that session. Others praised our costumes with un-British enthusiasm that turned out to be neither sarcastic nor fearful. 

At the end of the day, back on our Noble British Public Transport System, we wended our separate ways knowing that we'd been a part of something great. And if we'd never been quite sure who won, over at Wimbledon Andy Murray was busily claiming his Gold, so we (I) got the opportunity to blub with pride after all.

Race Riot?

Many of you expressed horror at last week's Kate in the Countryside, which saw KITC party to the worst case of sporting sabotage this century. Or so we thought. 

Trenton, mate, if you want to be taken seriously...

Then came Saturday: the day the world met Trenton Oldfiled. A self-proclaimed Suffragette of our times, Trenton is man so committed to the fight against elitism that he ignores the elitist principles of spelling even for his own name.

It was 1pm and grey when I left the Pad for the river. In my cautiously worn Blues stash I fitted in perfectly with the baying braying crowd. The mood was obnoxious and cheerful. 

Oh who am I kidding? I love the Boat Race. In spite of the weather, the banks of the Thames were heaving with enthusiasts emboldened by Pimm's. It was impossible to find anyone or to move. Cast up between a cake stall and the entrepreneurial burger table, I was in danger of accidentally buying a hot dog when my fellow spectators found me.

One, dressed in even more stash than I, had not worn a coat. 

'You must be cold?' I asked.

'No. I've got nine Blues,' he explained.

We kept moving to avoid all the other awful people, and they, us. Soon, the two boats passed, Oxford just ahead.

'Oh God,' moaned Nine Blues, 'it's only just started. We've lost.'

'Watching' the Boat Race by the Thames is a bit of a contradiction in terms. Though you are treated to a lot of atmosphere (read: tweed) you can't see much rowing. There's a good bit for about ten seconds when the boats pass near enough for you to work out which is which but, other than that, we'd had our allotted excitement. When the group in front of us were splashed by the convoy's wake and a girl dropped her drink it was already had one of the most eventful Boat Races I'd ever been to.

We wandered back down towards the start and its giant TV screen. We observed a pigeon. We wondered whether to have another lukewarm beer.

The drink-dropper seemed determined to liven things up: 'Hey look, there's a bloke in the water. Someone's fallen in!' 

This seemed unlikely. Rowing is a simple sport.

'It's a streaker!' I suggested optimistically.

'It's a protest,' volunteered a radio-carrying gent who was passing.

Like I say, you can't see much at the Boat Race. We called a friend.

'Some cretin jumped in. They're restarting the race,' he explained.

We all agreed that the crews should have carried on and got him.

'Would man's head have been chopped off or just gouged?' Mother Dearest mused, via text.

It was at that point we gave up on the live experience and headed to a pub. As for the #boatraceswimmer, we don't need to talk about him. That pratty little man and his God complex and his beard. And his imbecilic ranting. So we won't. You know the rest. 

But be warned Oldfeild: England is unhappy with you. And we won't miss again.

(Lucky) Escape to the Countryside

Apple Day happened last weekend. For those of you who are not familiar with this illustrious occasion, it celebrates the end of the apple harvest. It is not - as PG (in her other guise as the Apple Hostess) was quick to clarify - the one day in which all apples are picked on all farms. Thank God. It's more an educative opportunity regarding apples.

The weekend's warm up to Apple Sunday was not so cerebral.

Friday's quiet drink with friends involved an accidental visit to the m&m's 'World' in Leicester Square. There, bouncers wore m&m's ties while shop assistants with sad eyes danced uncomfortably to the hyperpop next to m&ms inexplicably arranged to look somewhat like the Beatles. 

Terrifying

'Just look at all the different flavours of m&m's!' enthused Unlikely Militant Raver, one of the chums, trying to stay upbeat. [There were three (3) flavours.] Failing to fight the place's atmosphere of canned hopelessness with enthusiasm, we left.

It became clear that - to UMR - such an experience could only be topped, post pub, by a visit to a strip club. No matter that it was 9.30 and a third of the party was female - UMR would not be deterred. Attention transferred from chocolate pellets to naked chicks, he struggled to get us on board.

'Come on you bores! It's this great place my Grandad's told me about. (Pause. Confusion.) We'll walk past - see what's going down.'

The club of choice is just by where I work. Which is nice. We approached the bouncer: 

'Oh look! What about this place?' (UMR, acting) 'We could just grab a drink in here guys.'

Bouncer: 'Lads, lads, er, this place is not the sort of place you go for - er - "drinks".'

UMR: Right. What sort of a place is it then?

Jez

Bouncer (both awkward and smarmy. Think apologetic Jeremy Kyle): Well, it's got girls in. 

UMR (politely, in manner of enquiry): Girls?

Bouncer (coy): So - er - a bottle of champagne will be … so I mean you'll have to buy drinks for the girls. 

UMR (feigning sudden understanding): Aaah! The girls take their clothes off!

All look at me.

KitC (scrambling for taking-charge-of-the-conversation pleasantries): Er … busy night so far? Good ... turnout? So. Shall I leave?

Thank God for Sunday and the wholesome opportunity to sample the repertoire of this year's apples. Down in the countryside I found an idyll of apple-enthusiasts - not to mention the highlight: PG stashed up in farm outfit. Occasional animals and aesthetically-pleasing children ambled past the apple juice like extras in an Austen remake. Though the long-promised Apple Quiz did not materialise, there were plenty of Enid Blyton activities (apple bobbing, old-school pinball) to make the day an extravaganza of loveliness. Kate in the Countryside restored.

A good day for Kates

While it is eternally perplexing to me that millions might not watch my wedding online or livetweet the action seconds at a time, it would churlish for Kate in the Countryside to ignore the Big Sloane Bash, so here it is - the view from Pimlico:

First, in Hello mood, here's some detail on my personal affinity with the BSB. My initials are KM, my first name is Kate and well, my walk to work traces the wedding route from the Palace which shows how particularly well-placed I am to comment. I'm practically Kate Middleton. If she had a job. Obviously. 

On my way to work on Thursday (Royal Wedding Eve) I amused myself by rootling around within the depths of my bag near Buckingham Palace and watching as police officers wiped sweat from their brows fearing terrorist threat. Gone are the days when a bearded half-Iranian friend and I would scurry past police officers and plot fictional plots in loud whispers yet evade arrest. These chaps looked so troubled that not even my unthreatening pink jacket could reassure them.

Regal.

Happily I continued unarrested, pausing only to admire the battalion of portaloos stationed along the Mall. Everywhere you looked were photographers in search of corners to capture. One in particular had taken up residence in my cheeky work shortcut. Believe me, dear reader, the internal vitriol I silently aimed at the hapless chap cannot have been good for my soul. 

The day itself brought out a fairly surprising level of bright-eyed enthusiasm from even some of my more cynical chums. When one started a Facebook group announcing his intention of camping on the Mall for Wedding Eve, I (wrongly) assumed it was a spoof. But when others started finding nice things to say about Beatrice and Eugenie's universally-derided-dresses, I knew that wedding fever was in fact a damaging social condition.  

BOF and I live on the cusp of the action, but our boho-Pad is so on trend that we have no TV with which to actually view it. BOF was at work, livetweeting from the office (the perfect place to assimilate the atmosphere…), so I ducked into a pub to see the Dress and munch regal brekkers. 

Inside, in the only room without a monster TV playing out the action, were a family of four with two young children. The father was steadfastly involved in his paper. His daughter, by contrast, kept hopping down from the table to scuttle into the TV bar. Each time, she returned brimming with excitement: 'I saw a princess Daddy!' 'Very good,' said her father, not looking up from his Guardian. 'Sit down and eat your toast please. Much more interesting.' Fighting an uphill Republican battle there I fear.

Later that day I celebrated the understated nuptials with some citrus ale in a microbrewery in Leyton, followed by garage music in the trendy east. Just as Kate would have wanted.

Spring Cleaning at Buckingham Palace

In the run up to the most discreet nuptials ever conducted, I'm seriously concerned that this curious bash will stir the Met into decisive action over my work walk short cut by the palace. Every morning I fear today will be the day. 



Buck Pal Fountain: Subtle Imperial Iconography

It was when I first observed the pre-wedding buffing of the (already clean) bronze sculptures outside Buckingham Palace that I realised my fence gap's days were numbered.

You see, BOF and I had a dinner party the other night. As we prepared, I realised I'd absorbed MD’s attitude to entertaining. [Yes, dear reader, I'm about to contrive a comparison of MD to the Queen: bear with me.] Back in the countryside if guests were coming I would be enlisted to help with polishing, table-laying, hoovering, pot-plant-reorganisation - that sort of thing. No matter that the upstairs cupboard would have no part in the proceedings (unless confused guests got lost perhaps), no corner was left unmolested.


So at the Pad this week, I got crazy with the hoover MD-wise, while BOF constructed deliciousness. At some point I decided a cake was necessary - then threw flour all over the place before conducting an inept floor clean and forgetting the actually visible expanses of carpet. Twenty minutes before our guests were due to arrive, I realised that the sitting room [sorry - The Dining Room today] furniture needed moving. Too worried that BOF would try and talk me out of my labour-intensive completely unnecessary new room plan, I threw sofas about by myself for fifteen minutes. 

In the end, the room looked - frankly - exactly the same. I'd had little or no impact - other than to traumatise BOF enough that he poured almost an entire extra bottle of wine into the coq au vin.

Back at the Palace (Liz's, not ours), fountain-cleansing has been going for about a month now, all sweat and comedy brow-rubbing from the workers to indicate endeavour. As I walked past last week, protective wooden crates around the statues were being removed to show that ... nothing had changed. The marble supports were perhaps a little more water-stained, but that was it.

Alas, shocker - no pics of Queenie plus
Mids Senior to be found. Nice plate-hat though

What happened was this: one day Queenie was sitting up in the palace with Mrs M observing the outrageous dullness of the bronze statues from the window. ‘Something must be done, Mids’, she doubtless said. So it was. The impact is less than marginal, but that’s not the point.

Like MD in the countryside awaiting her guests, or BOF and Kate in the Pad, having people over requires manic and obvious commitment to cleanliness. Bess knows this. She knows about dear Sarkozy's eagle eye for discoloured bronze and Princess Leitiza of Spain's disgust for gappy fences. Forget the Olympics, this Big Sloane Send-off is the Queen's house party including dinner with six courses. My poor wonky fence doesn't stand a chance.

Next Episode: Goodbye Childhood Home - The Conclusion

London Rogues part 3: Banking Crisis

Way to BOF's heart,
in case you're interested

After a slightly unlikely night out a couple of days ago, a friend and I at last decided to head back to the Pad for tea and sleep. [Poor old BOF almost tried to pretend he hadn't been woken up at 4 by my confused babbling, but this was an unconvincing politeness too far. Gifts of blueberries followed - Countryside gold dust - and concerned readers should note that Pad sleep patterns have now been restored.] 

As Tactful Friend and I made to leave (she, fleeing hordes of eager suitors), some Heroic young gent (Hyg) asked where we were headed. By astonishing coincidence he too was on his way back to Pimlico, though he seemed uncertain about exactly where. We grabbed a cab. 

I still get embarrassingly excited about travelling through the city at night, so I spent the journey observing every landmark, leaving TF to fend off Hyg's banking soliloquy. Eventually I noticed that we were following a route I recognised. To mark this groundbreaking geographical triumph, I pointed something out to the others (Buckingham Palace probably: marvel at my intricate knowledge of London…). Hyg looked scandalised. 

'What the hell are we doing in central London?' He demanded, loudly enough for Our Kindly Taxi Driver to hear.

(OKTD) 'Well, Victoria sort of is in central London mate.'

(Hyg) 'Yeah but this isn't the bloody route to take is it? When we get cars from the Bank they never take us  through the centre.'

Tactful Friend and I swapped glances. 'Mmm,' she contributed, noncommittally. 'Oh well. So, you were saying about derivatives…'

Obligatory 'greedy banker' image

Oblivious to her attempts to steer him back to the straight and narrow, Hyg blundered on with his thoughts about OKTD's crummy knowledge of London. He seemed convinced that this was a route contrived to do us out of money. Slightly dodgy ground from an investment banker this, as even old Bobby Diamond might have spotted. 

OKTD was no longer watching the road by now, which struck me as bad news. Instead he stared at our friend with a murderous glint in his eye.

Keen to live, I attempted diplomacy. Badly. My tactic - calling the taxi driver 'sir' and shouting over Hyg's commentary - had no noticeable effect, except to make TF even more uncomfortable and Hyg even more shouty. With relief, I spot the Pad looming a couple of streets away. 

KitC: 'Here we are!' 

TF (surprised): 'What? Oh yes, yes this is us… Thanks!'

Grabbing the door handle, we leg it, flinging an array of small change at our friend. Since he's the sort of chap who bins ten pence pieces because he finds them annoying, he looked particularly galled.  

As we slammed the door shut, we felt a little guilty. But Hyg's a man who can look after himself. Definitely.