‘But Dad, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We can’t miss out. We can’t… .’
‘No, Son, it will be a complete ruddy waste of time and money. We’re too poor. Even if we tried to get tickets we’d only get really crap ones like Albania versus Belarus in the women’s football. Anyway it’ll be crowded and tacky and boring and horrible. Oh and we’d probably get blown up by a terrorist bomb. So really, we’re well out of it.’
As I write these words Boy is with Girl on summer camp in Hampshire. We sent him there, as much as anything, so we wouldn’t have to listen to any more moaning and wheedling and sulking about our total abject failure to get him tickets to see the most important and exciting sporting event in the history of mankind. And now his mother and I feel guilty beyond measure because last night we did a really terrible thing. We went and watched the athletics at the Olympic stadium.
It wasn’t our fault, really it wasn’t. A nasty bad foreign man — a well-connected American buddy called Scott — made us do it. He texted me: ‘I just had two tickets for you dumped in my lap, if you’re interested. Please let me know ASAP if you can use. Good seats.’ And because it was my birthday I said yes.
Now if you’ve read this far I’m very impressed because I don’t think I would have done. Once I’d got to the word ‘Olympic’, I reckon, I would have flicked on to another article — rather as you do, say, during Edinburgh festival month when you refuse to waste even a millisecond of life finding out who’s hotly tipped for the Perrier or what’s rocking the Gilded Balloon or what Charlie Spencer made of Peter Stein’s 12-hour Latvian medley of Shakespeare’s problem plays because you don’t give a toss because YOU WEREN’T THERE.
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