Olympic class

We’re rounding the corner and heading into the multi-ringed circus that calls itself the London 2012 Olympic Games. And as I’ve noted before, we don’t have to wait until tomorrow’s opening ceremony to find drama, danger and just plain dopiness.

First—update on the threatened strike by (amongst others) border control/immigration workers set for today (day before opening ceremony): it’s been called off. Both the union and HM Government are declaring victory, and frankly it’s hard to tell who blinked first. A union spokesman said that the government is adding 1300 new jobs they’ve been wanting; but a ministry spokesman said that the advertised jobs weren’t new but planned replacements.

Whatever—everyone’s assuring us that getting into the country will be a doddle. Which, it must be said, it has been for suspected terrorists in the past couple of weeks. Border officials on passport desks have allegedly let three (or more, depending on your source) persons on the Home Office’s watch list enter Britain at London Heathrow alone.

So, it’s probably a good thing that the LOCOG have called up an additional 1200 troops to supplement the 3500 already in place to work security at the games, after the company contracted to supply a security force of 12,000 screwed the pooch. There are now more squaddies deployed on active duty in the UK than in Afghanistan. Might be a tougher assignment.

But there are some things that the British Army just can’t make right.

For one, this whole thing of corporate sponsorship has entered the realm of, of—well, somewhere that both George Orwell and Salvador Dalì would really have appreciated.

If you think the Olympics are solely about athletic achievement and the brotherhood of man, you should stop reading right now. No one (outside, oh, say, the People’s Republic of China) can afford to put on a consumer experience that tops that of the previous Olympiad without getting it subsidized by business interests, which in turn are taking massive “marketing expense” deductions on their tax returns. Sports facilities, participant dorms, transportation infrastructure, opening ceremonies with sky-diving hippos and ballet-dancing crocodiles, cleaning the toilets—all this costs more money than running the NHS. Or the state of California.

So every Olympic organizing committee shops out exclusive product sponsorship contracts to companies with seriously hefty pocketbooks (and really slick accountants). Given the choice between having McDonald’s or the taxpayer pay for erecting a new stadium, most people would hand off to the corporate clown.

But getting exclusive placement for a variety of products in front of the three billion worldwide viewers has resulted in some bizarre restrictions on what ticket holders can bring or wear, because God forbid the cameras panning the 60,000 raving fans in the stand should spot a couple of Asics logos when Adidas is an official sponsor.

In fact, there’s a whole list of items you can’t wear or bring to an Olympic venue, including:

·         Balls, rackets, Frisbees

·         Large flags and banners

·         Clothing with political statements or commercial signage

·         Oversized hats

·         Large golf-style umbrellas

·         Long-lens cameras and tripods

·         Excessive amounts of food

·         Noisemakers

·         Liquids greater than 100ml

A lot of this I get—personally I’d just haul off and shoot anyone showing up with a vuvuzela. And big hats and umbrellas would block the view of other fans and lead to brawls that could involve the army and a whole lot of stuff.

But how much food is “excessive”? And what constitutes “political statement”? If I showed up with a tee-shirt emblazoned with “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal and endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights”—aside from someone having to get really up close and personal to read it, would I be escorted away?

Because they’re saying you won’t be let in if you are a fashion felon.

And what’s the extent of “commercial signage”? If you’re wearing a shirt with a Nike swoosh, would they strip it off you at the gate? Would they do that equally to men and women? Will they charge extra for the broadcast rights to film that? Will they have approved-sponsor logoed swag available for offending attendees to swap out? Or stock bags full of ratty old jackets from the jumble sale to layer over your Corona shirt?

What if it’s a shirt with a little polo pony logo? In pink? (Have they assigned an official sponsor color?)

This is really confusing, and not clarified at all by the pronouncements of Sebastian Coe, the official big cheese of the LOCOG. Coe, made a life peer for his work fronting the games (or maybe for having been a contender back in the day)—well, except that he doesn’t seem to do illegal substances, he reminds me some of Marion Barry. You just never know what he’s going to say next.

Coe is the one who announced authoritatively and publicly that if you show up at a venue wearing a shirt with a Pepsi logo on it, you’ll be chucked out. But, he added, if you’ve got Nikes on your feet you’ll “probably” be allowed in. (I am not making this stuff up.)

LOCOG immediately denounced this as a load of old cobbers. Well, okay, what they said was, “As an individual you are free to wear clothing of your choice.”

So—still not clear as to whether you’ll be let in (as long as you’re not there with 189 of your best buddies also wearing non-sponsor logos or colors, because that would be ambush marketing; or industrial-strength snottiness), denied entry, asked to remove your shirt, or have the offending logo painted over. Watch this space.

However, we can count on Coe (dubbed alternately “Lord Coe of Coca-Colashire” and “Lord of the Rings” by his not-fans) for more entertainment. At a press conference earlier this week, he was quite the hail-fellow-well-met, inviting international journalists to a right old piss-up. (I’m assuming that’s what the NPR reporter was being so coy about.)

Let me just say, from my own personal experience as a reporter for a daily newspaper, you don’t have to whisper “bar’s open” twice to a crowd of journalists.

And we have another day to go before it all officially starts. These are what I really call games.