Once, Boris, you would have hated this show

In the end, after sniping and carping and moaning for months about how ghastly the Olympics was going to be, I thought the opening ceremony rather wonderful and therefore felt ashamed of myself for having been so aloof. I had not expected such a breadth of vision, nor such beauty, nor indeed the copious room allowed for a certain self-deprecating humour. I wish I’d been there, with the kids. As it was we allowed our six-year-old daughter to stay up to watch the athletes parade around the stadium with their flags and it may well have been the most instructive two hours she has enjoyed in her life. Huw Edwards would announce the national origin of a tranche of athletes and my daughter would ask, wide-eyed: ‘What’s this country like, daddy?’

And I would reply: ‘It’s an absolutely awful place, darling, full of sand and medieval maniacs.’ And she would then loudly boo the contingent, and shout ribald insults at them — even, on one occasion (Somalia or Sudan, I forget which) throwing potato crisps at the TV screen in suddenly acquired ­outrage.