London Olympics: Opening Ceremony

So I’m laying in bed, feigning sleep though it’s already past 1pm, feeling disappointed but nevertheless unsurprised that I’ve missed the Opening Ceremony. Zzz.

(fast forward three hours):

Yes! Tomorrow’s itinerary has been partially crafted. I will be shopping with my old friend Jack for jackets (I say ‘old’ because of the length of time in which I’ve known him, and also because of his old man demeanour). My cat has happily clawed my favourite biker jacket (a deed that will alas, go unpunished). Anyhow who cares, we’re going shopping! Yes, the old routines are indeed hurtling back into place, and in celebration of their return, I have bestowed the honour of eating one Tim Tam biscuit upon myself.

The creatives behind London 2012 Opening Ceremony.

In the past three hours (less half, in which I chittered and Jack chattered on the phone), I watched the replay of the Opening Ceremony. It was quite something, what with Mother grumbling and egging my little brother on one end, and my brother grumbling and cracking retaliations on the other. The Ceremony was spectacular, there was no doubt about that. It may have lacked Beijing 2008’s sheer grandeur and scale, but London makes up for what it lacks with its unmistakeable wit, humour, and theatrics. Among those iconic British faces that appeared on my screen included Sir Paul McCartney, Mr. Bean (an uproarious performance by Rowan Atkinson), Dizzee Rascal, Daniel Craig, Muhammad Ali, and yes, Her Majesty The Queen. Even the band ‘Fuck Buttons’ made an electronic appearance! Wonder what went through Her Majesty’s mind then.

And gooooodow! If there is one thing that I’ve learned from my interrupted-and-hence-less-pleasurable-than-anticipated viewing of the Opening Ceremony, it’s that one could learn a LOT from watching interrupted-and-hence-less-pleasurable-than-anticipated Opening Ceremonies. Like how the lead singer/ guitarist of the Arctic Monkeys is flaming hot! And that the Arctic Monkeys are British. Which is unsurprising I suppose. The British voice (and sadly little else for me) is the alluring booby trap into which I had or would lay anything on the line to be swimming in it: that includes my waking hours, my virginity,  my pristine sense of ethics, et cetera, et cetera.

I also learned that the Queen’s hubby is still alive, omg. Prince Philip/ Phillip/ Philippe won’t be too pleased with my belated discovery. To top it off, I would be one of the ignorant nitwits to trample his beloved land next year, and am very much looking forward to it! It must take a quite a toll upon any husband’s existence to know that the corgi dogs of one’s wife are more famous and significantly cuter than himself.

© île-de-vix: The Battle Royale

I’ll leave you to sympathise with the loser.

Grosses bises,

x Vix

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