JUST for a laugh, would it have killed the French Olympic opening ceremony to float the Afghanistan team down the Seine in a rubber dinghy accompanied by Calais border control?
Or fly the Jolly Roger flag from the Somalian boat?
Or, better still, put up a caption, underneath the big lass with the crown, at the Christian-baiting segment that read: “Her Last Supper? I doubt it.”
The answer to all three of my questions being: “Yes, it may well have killed them.”
Not literally, obviously, but they’d have had a right-on fit of the vapours at the mere suggestion of such political outrages.
Apparently, it’s OK, though, to taunt Christians in the full knowledge that, if they’d tried the same stunt with Islam, Paris would’ve been burned to the ground and the creative director Thomas Jolly would have had to spend the rest of his life in hiding.
They’ve since denied any such offence was intended, of course, but that was the cowardly and shameful hypocrisy at the heart of BBC One’s Opening Ceremony which, from the moment France switched it from a stadium to the centre of Paris, was always going to add up to a political lecture rather than a celebration of sport.
It wasn’t going to be over in a hurry either.
Four hours it dragged, yet the only salvageable element was the breathtakingly beautiful performance of Hymne a L’amour, on the Eiffel Tower, by Celine Dion who came as close as anyone possibly could to saving the night, given the content and circumstances.
I’m glad she didn’t, though, because the occasion didn’t deserve her glorious intervention.
It deserved the two things it got.
A technical disaster and rain, a biblical deluge of which fell on the procession of boats.
Although, ironically, it was about the only thing that wasn’t blamed on “climate change” by the BBC commentary duo of Hazel Irvine and Andrew Cotter, who seem to have been updating us on the buoyancy, or otherwise, of the Marshall Islands since the original Games of 776BC.
If the environmental eulogies to Costa Rica — “It’s so lush” — didn’t grate quite as much as usual then that was entirely down to the accompanying “artistic tableaux,” solidarite, diversite, enchante, pomposite, stupidite, all of which had to be expressed through the medium of sledgehammering political-correctness and dance.
You couldn’t stop them gyrating or lecturing, in fact.
So, at various points, you were probably unable to avoid: Men in skirts, a French heavy metal band, a dozen or so headless Marie Antoinettes, the Last Supper gang and a mechanical horse being ridden down the river, by a tinfoil ET, like Charlotte Dujardin was in hot pursuit.
Not sure any of it taught me a single thing about Paris, as promised, but I’ve certainly learnt never to say “It can’t get any worse” again.
For the words were no sooner out of my gob than Hazel was saying: “We are celebrating now France’s place in the European Union and the Union itself.
“We’re going to be hearing the greatest hits to come out of the Eurozone.”
These included Sandstorm by Darude and The Final Countdown by Europe.
The point at which I started to think the whole thing was a put-up job, creatively directed by Nigel Farage, though, was when they played the European Parliament’s unofficial anthem Bla Bla Bla by Gigi D’Agostino.
By this stage, incidentally, thanks to a giant naked smurf (“Dionysus”) I think I’d also seen two ballbags.
Or three, if you include Tom Hiddleston.
I’d laughed just once, though, and that was when one of Lady Gaga’s dancers almost can-canned into The Seine, by accident.
’Cos that’s the reality of a woke agenda.
If you ever had it in the first place, it’ll rob you of the sense of humour that helped make London 2012 and Sydney 2000 so memorable just as certainly as cutting and pasting all over a city will obliterate its true character and identity and leave you with nothing but a feeling of resentment and some damning statistics.
After seven years in the making, at an estimated cost of $130million, the opening ceremony casually insulted 2.4billion Christians and all we got in return was three minutes 37 seconds of Celine Dion.
As all the most underwhelmed sports commentators exclaim, when they’ve run out of anything else to say.
Wow.
THE Weakest Link, Romesh Ranganathan: “In pastimes, what is the name of the title character in the UK version of the children’s book series known in the US as Where’s Waldo?”
Rhona Martin: “Walrus.”
Romesh: “In anatomy, what is the term for the upper bony part of the nose which shares its name with a type of crossing structure?”
Pete Reed: “Skull.”
Tipping Point, Ben Shephard: “In May 2021 it was reported that a farmer moved a boundary marker stone that effectively changed Belgium’s border with which country?”
Kya: “Austria.” Jill: “Spain.”
The Finish Line, Roman Kemp: “In total, how many days are there in November and December?” Mickey: “30.”
THE BBC’s One O’Clock News trying to blame the sewage-related cancellation of Tuesday’s triathlon on “climate change”.
Tearful pundits, like Rebecca Adlington, who can’t stop telling us they’re “getting emotional”.
And everyone at BBC Sport who’s so lost to the cult of woke they thought we should watch a pool game of women’s rugby rather than what could’ve been Andy Murray’s last ever tennis match.
With the real kicker being, they’ll do it again and again and again…
AT about the same time the Olympic balloon was rising above Paris, former butler Paul Burrell was attempting to contact the ghost of “My princess” via the Really channel’s Celebrity Help! My House Is Haunted.
A dignified and deeply respectful operation, as you can imagine, which involved the gullible old fool whimpering into some gizmo called an Electronic Voice Phenomena recorder which seems to have most of Highgate cemetery on speed-dial.
“Hello . . . it’s me . . . I’m here.
“Are you watching over me?”
While they’re lighting the Olympic flame, on BBC One? I very much doubt it, Paul.
It’s just you, me and the living dead.
The more the show’s three resident ghost-hunters, Ian Lawman, Barri Ghai and Jayne Harris, poked around Burrell’s Cheshire mansion, though, the more it sounded like they were indeed making that significant royal connection and I had to ask myself some pretty searching questions.
“There are spirits in the room,” “There’s a eminine energy,” “A wheeze . . .”
Could it really be HER? Surely it wasn’t?
But then Ian said something which meant I could avoid the truth no longer: “The smell of smoke is everywhere.”
Princess Margaret? Is that really you?
OLYMPIC claim of the week. Diving, Katherine Downes: “It’ll be a ding-dong between the Chinese athletes, Chang and Chen, for the individual gold.”
Though Ding Dong can consider herself unlucky she didn’t finish first.
CELEBRITY Help! My House Is Haunted. Paul Burrell: “This ‘shape’ has always been in the house.
But my husband Graham woke up at three in the morning, reared up in the bed and started screaming, “THERE’S SOMEBODY IN THE ROOM! THERE’S SOMEBODY IN THE ROOM!’ ”
Well, you bloody marr- ied him, Graham.
THIS week’s winner is Sarah Parish, giving one of the weirdest performances in sitcom history as Julie Spry in Piglets, and the great John Inman as Mr Humphries in Are You Being Served?
Sent in by Robert Morgan, of Edinburgh.
MARK FOSTER: “If you’re going to come fourth, come third. At least you’ll get a medal.”
Adrian Moorhouse: “If Adam does this, he’s a legend. He’s a legend already.”
And Jeanette Kwakye: “What could be a better present than a bronze medal?”
(Compiled by Graham Wray)
Celebrity Help! My House Is Haunted, Barri Ghai: “The EVP recorder enables us to hear beyond the human ear range for any nearby spirit energy.”
Love Island, Joey Essex: “I don’t think I’m really a pot-stirrer. I try to get people to speak the truth.”
And Love Island, Joey Essex: “I’ll make it work with Jessy. I’m a busy man.”
Were a busy man, Joey. WERE.
THE hunt to find the best Olympic subtitle begins with this BBC One effort from creative director Marco Balich, who was actually talking about Fifa when this legend appeared: “The Olympics is bigger than beaver, ’cos beaver is for men.”
Who said the following to Carol Vorderman, this week: “Where’s the knife? Good luck, Carol?”
A) Abbey Clancy on ITV’s Cooking With The Stars?
B) Half of Harley Street, of MTV’s Plastic Surgery Knifemares?
CAN’T deny I quite enjoyed Channel 4’s Saucy! Secrets Of The British Sex Comedy, where they largely avoided the trap of preachiness; C4’s fascinating and frustrating series Body Detectives; and ITV2 inadvertently removing Joey Essex from front line television by revealing him to be an arrogant, pot-stirring, two-faced narcissist on Love Island.
But it was nothing compared with the punch-the-air pleasure I got from watching Britain’s men’s 4x200m metre freestyle team claim gold in the pool, and Andy Murray doing a joyful jig of delight with Dan Evans, after saving two more match points and winning at Roland Garros, on Tuesday night.
Live sport at its most moving and glorious.
