Becky says things about … what the hell we’re all going to do now

Right, so um … yeah.

Well, er … I mean we could … um … you know …

Dunno, really.

What ARE we going to do now?

I think I’ve forgotten how to live normally. What will we do with those minutes in which we used to check our London 2012 Results app? Go to the toilet? Have an apple? Kill a badger? I just don’t know. What will we do without the cheery smiles of Gary Lineker, Sue Barker, Gabbie Logan, and the rest of the lovely BBC sports anchors? How will we cope with hearing news stories about what’s going on outside the Olympic Games (I know, it’s a shock to be reminded that there is stuff outside London 2012 – I didn’t want to believe it but it’s true)? Instead of cheery gold medals and 15 year old girls putting their legs in their ears or something, we’ll have to hear about bad stuff like war and thievery and general naughtiness.

What will we do without cheering everything that anyone does? We’ve spent two weeks cheering literally everything with such gay enthusiasm – and we got really good at it as well – that I just don’t know what we’ll do without it. What does it mean to not cheer something? No, I can’t remember, either.

What will we do without the constant achievements? Without daily gold medals? We’ve had two weeks of almost hourly confirmations that WE’RE GREAT, but now what? Surely we can’t just go back to plodding along and never getting a prize for anything.

And after all becoming superfans of every sport that’s ever been invented – you know, the really interesting ones like cycling, rowing, gymnastics, judo, athletics, badminton, BMX racing – we’re now being abandoned by all those brilliant sports, and left with ruddy bloody boring shitty football. After two weeks of watching some of the most brilliant athletes and sportsmen and women in the world, we’re going to be back in front of a load of monstrously overpaid arrogant twonkheads scuttling and diving round a pitch and pretending they’re the best things since sliced bread. Brilliant.


I don’t want to go back to a normal life. I don’t want that cloud of sporting and patriotic greatness to dissolve and leave us with NOTHING. It’s like we’ve been looking after a noisy but thoroughly wonderful and entertaining toddler for a fortnight, but now its mum and dad have got back from holiday and taken it back. We are bereft. Nothing left to do but stare at the wall and contemplate our own miserable, tedious, meaningless little lives.


Life without London 2012 is shit.

Becky says things about … being the Official Blog of London 2012

Well obviously I’m not. That would be ridiculous. But I’m sure that, somewhere, someone is writing the Official Blog of London 2012, on the Official Laptop of London 2012, on the Official Desk of London 2012, in the Official Room in a House of London 2012, in the Official Street of London 2012, and a bit later on he will make a sandwich with the Official Bread of London 2012 and fill it with the Official Smoked Ham of London 2012 and dab on a spot of Official Salad Cream of London 2012, and eat it at the Official Flatpack Kitchen Table of London 2012.

Now of course we’re all tremendously excited about the Olympics, it’s going to do wonders for London and the economy, we’re proud to show off our city and our lovely little English ways of doing things. But please – please – can we stop labeling


as the Official This, That and the Other of Bloody London 20 Ruddy 12???? Do we need an Official Television of London 2012? An Official Drink of London 2012? The world’s gone sponsoring mad. My bottle of Evian is apparently the Official Bottled Water of Wimbledon. Now I know that’s a nice bit of variety, and those thirsty tennis players will need to keep hydrated, but COME ON.

(I was going to make a joke about what would  happen if Thames Water jumped on the band wagon, but they only ruddy have! And you thought you were just drinking a normal glass of tap water – oh no, you are officially imbibing the Official Tap Water of London 2012.)

I mean, when is it going to stop? The potential is almost frighteningly infinite. And why stop at sporting events? Why doesn’t everyone else get involved? The Official Pencil of the Society for All Artists? The Official Icing Sugar of the WI? The Official Socket Wrench of the AA? The Official Walk-Across-Some-Fields-and-Over-Some-Well-Signposted-Stiles of English Heritage?

Nothing is sacred anymore. Nothing.

Becky says things about … the strange phenomenon of men and football

Hooray for us, hooray for England being so super at playing football, hooray for not being horrendously humiliated in front of the rest of the footballing world AGAIN, hooray for three lovely goals, hooray hooray etc etc yippee.

So we won a game of football. A simple statement. A game of football was played and, fortunately and rather unusually, won. But I’m not sure it is that simple. Having spent last night in a pub filled with lots of men, I think we women have been underestimating the psychological strain involved when a man watches football. It is a tumultuous roller coaster ride of emotions.


Even before the game started, there were men outside the pub pacing up and down the pavement, frantically smoking, scraping their hands through their hair, wiping their moist brows, as though they were all waiting for their wives to give birth to their first child. They weren’t. They were just waiting to watch some football.

Extreme Concentration

You know when you are telling a man that you are going out tonight and that there is some food in the fridge and that you’ll be home around half ten and almost immediately his face glazes over and he’s not really looking at you but at a point just to the left of you? He’s lost concentration. It happens in the blink of an eye. Yet during the football, they have to concentrate. If they take their eye of the screen for

                one second

something irreversible and dreadful will happen. So they never take their eye off the screen. Ever.


It’s all plodding along nicely. The footballers are kicking the football about on the field. Kick kick kick bounce bounce bounce. We’re all having a nice time. Then the ball starts going a little too much in the wrong direction. This is when the fear kicks in. It grows and spreads, like a virus, to their very soul, as the ball edges ever closer to the possibility of an enemy goal…

And it either has a good outcome – the ‘I literally couldn’t be more relieved if someone told me my house had burned down and then said it actually hadn’t burned down at all’ outcome:

– or the ‘Nothing worse than this has ever happened to anyone ever in the entire history of the world ever and I may as well just kill myself immediately’ outcome:


Usually follows from the aforementioned emotion. They cannot accept that the enemy has scored a goal against our boys. There were some startling displays of male anger in the pub last night.

There was the ‘Shout swear words very loudly at the television’ type of anger:

The ‘Rant amongst yourselves about how such a gratuitous act of sporting injustice has definitely ruined all our lives’ type of anger:

The ‘Go very red in the face, look incredibly affronted, and shout FUCK every now and then, then stomp off to go and have a cigarette or have a word with yourself in the toilets’ type of anger:

The ‘Sit silently with arms folded staring evilly at the TV and mentally bombing the country of the enemy team’ type of anger:


Better than sex, better than food, better than a room full of naked Cameron Diaz lookalikes smeared in sour cream and lying on Bugatti Veyrons, the goal is a million orgasms all stuffed into one beautiful emotion. For a few minutes, man love is boundless. It becomes permissible to dry-hump each other, to go in for a quick manly snog, to display infinitely more joy than they displayed at their weddings, the births of their children, promotions, birthdays, Christmas, paying off the mortgage, anything. This is elation like no other.

And we wonder why they come home swaying and slurring and bleary-eyed, or why they get arrested for stumbling into roads or wandering the streets in their pants  – you see they’re not drunk, they’re merely exhausted by the incredible psychological and emotional joyride on which they have been taken.

So next time, remember, they’re not just watching football. They are never just ‘watching football’. They are living through 90 minutes of torturous emotional madness, all going on inside their little flushed heads.