I was staying with my family in Devon last weekend when my son Ludo spotted that the Olympic Torch Relay was due to pass through Dartmouth on Sunday morning. ‘Can we go, Daddy?’ he asked. ‘Please, please, please?’
Dartmouth was only ten minutes from the cottage we were renting, so it seemed churlish to refuse. Caroline and the other children were quite excited by the prospect, too. Even my curiosity was piqued. I envisaged a distinguished Olympian running with the torch, followed by a squad of young hopefuls. A scene from the director’s cut of Chariots of Fire.
We arrived in Dartmouth at about 11 a.m., having read on the Torch Relay website that the parade was due to arrive at 11.25 a.m., and took up our positions on the pavement. A crowd of well-wishers had already started to gather and the mood was one of eager anticipation.
The first inkling that the convoy was heading towards us was when a motorcycle outrider arrived and started distributing flags to the crowd. I couldn’t help noticing that the Union Jack was only printed on one side. On the other was a large advert for Samsung, one of the three ‘official’ sponsors of the Torch Relay.
Shortly afterwards, wave upon wave of police motorcyclists started rolling past, followed by a series of police Land Rovers, all packed to the gills with coppers. There must have been 100 of them in total. Why so many? This wasn’t an anti-cuts protest, after all, but a celebration of the Olympics. An off-duty officer standing behind me pointed out that some were from the Metropolitan Police and would, therefore, be on time-and-a-half. Who was paying for all this?
Then came the sponsors — a deluge of sponsors. First a bus with ‘Samsung’ written all over it, then a Lloyds bus, followed by a Coca-Cola bus. Each vehicle was surrounded by a troupe of girls in the official Olympic tracksuit — a shiny, chavvy monstrosity — who bounced around distributing merchandise to the crowd. And then, just when I thought the commercial part of the ceremony was finally over, more of these buses arrived. Fleets of them, all pumping out carbon monoxide and showering the crowd with bric-a-brac that would soon be discarded on the street. So much for the Olympic Torch Relay. This was more like standing by the side of the North Circular, only with more litter.
At ten past 12, when the runners still hadn’t arrived, I began to get anxious. We were due for lunch at Riverford Farm Kitchen at 1 p.m. and it was a good 45 minutes away. I know from experience that if you’re not sitting down at 1 p.m. you lose your table. And I was meeting my sister there as well as an elderly friend of my mother’s. ‘If they’re not here in five minutes, we’re going to have to go,’ I said.
‘No, Dad,’ said Ludo. ‘This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, something we can tell our grandchildren about. Please!’
Just then, I spotted a flame behind me. At last! Only a few more minutes now. But wait. What was that in front of the flame? It was another bloody bus. No: two buses. And they were crawling along at a snail’s pace. We had to stand there for another 20 minutes while the convoy inched its way towards us.
Then, finally, we were face to face with the Olympic flame.
‘Is that it?’ said Ludo.
His bafflement was understandable. The torch was barely any bigger than an ice-cream cone and looked like just one more bit of tat being given away by the sponsors. It was being held (at waist height) by an elderly blind man, shuffling along while being supported by two human crutches. Who was he? A gold medallist from the 1948 games? A local worthy? The Lord Mayor’s brother? No one had a clue and no attempt was made to inform the crowd. It was as if the torch-bearer was an afterthought, a postscript to the main event, which was the interminable parade of sponsors.
‘That was rubbish,’ said Ludo, as we ran to the car park.
Haring along country lanes afterwards, trying to make my lunch appointment, I became quite angry. The Olympic Torch Relay is a good idea and the burghers of Dartmouth who’d come to witness it had nothing but goodwill in their hearts. But it was ruined — not merely tarnished, but ruined — by the heavy-handedness of the sponsors. This was no subtle branding exercise, but complete overkill. It felt like an hour-long advertisement, paid for by the taxpayer.
My seven-year-old son was quite excited about the Olympic Games. Not any more he isn’t.
Toby Young is associate editor of The Spectator.
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