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London has a lot to answer for. After the spectacular triumph of the 2012 opening ceremony, the minimum requirement for such occasions now seems to be some sort of historical narrative, buffed and polished to achieve the impeccable political correctness the world - or, more importantly, the world's broadcasters - can get on board with.
I preferred it when it was just a bunch of kids from the local drama schools, dressed up, waving giant dildos about. (The giant dildos, in fairness, were a failed attempt at fashionable mea culpa, making their appearance at a winter games in Canada, and meant to represent totem poles of native tribes displaced by European settlers.)
Pre-London, the joy of opening ceremonies was that they were often choreographed with the lack of self-awareness of the chap who directed the Springtime For Hitler sequence in The Producers. And a further joy for those of us watching at home was that the man deputed by the BBC to interpret the nonsense for the sofa-bound was usually that fine English gent Barry Davies, who invariably played a straight bat.
If the organisers said the dancing vaginas, or whatever, represented the many beautiful lakes and forests of the host nation, Barry would not be so impolite as to demur.
That's all for now. Full piece can be found here from 10am, Monday August 8th., 2016
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