Proprietor of the global combine City of London Laundry Mr Horace Bunsen (left) today admitted that he had been “somewhat surprised to see such major changes” in the eventual Olympic Games opening ceremony – hailed by the World yesterday as “mind-blowing theatre in the round from the Moscow State Circus”. But he dismissed as “nonsense” the idea that the final performance was too left-wing.
“I I I I I think there might have been shall we say a difference of you know interpretation between myself and director Darryl Boilersuit,” admitted the man most like to lead the next Tory Party after 2015, “But look, lost in translation is, rather like lost buses, bound to happen in the hurly-burly of arranging such a stupendously important event putting Britain on show, in hock, and at the centre of controversy. I mean, this has involved closing down the entire capital and most of the media for a fortnight, as well as telling people to get out of the bloody way, and only leave home unless their journey is absolutely necessary. It’s all part of showing the world that Britain is open for business.”
However, The Slog has obtained a copy of Mr Bunsen’s original summary draft. And it does seem to show that the Academy Award-winning director of Blairdog Billionaire was given a free hand to interpret the script he was given in the style of another one in his back pocket.
Final run-through summary 22.5.12 (HB)
The lights are dimmed to reveal an enormous green-and blue map of the world on the playing-surface of the Stadium. From a small dot off West coast of europe comes the hint of a red light, which then spreads inexorably through Aquitaine, across the Atlantic to America and on to Australia, before taking in China, India and large parts of Africa.
Cue thousands of smiling brown, yellow and black multicultural faces in the darkness, which is now lifting due to the vibrant red of Imperial glory. For the extreme townie comprehensive thickies in the audience, large letters appear in Royal Blue proclaiming ‘British Empire’. As this happens, the native Commonwealth subjects’ loin cloths miraculously morph into Hacket morning suits, and the word ‘Civilisation’ appears in bright yellow.
Two Sopwith Camels marked QE1 and QE 2 fly into the stadium and begin dropping trillions of five pound notes onto the people below. We see that everyone has become fabulously wealthy and is thus incredible happy, and then bends onto one knee as a familiar portly man in a bow tie and smoking a huge cigar waves two fingers at everyone. In the background, a swastika bursts into flame, but is quickly replaced by a hammer and sickle sporting a very bushy moustache. We see in Dayglo red the word ‘Stalin’, wobbling creepily all over the ground somehow.
A lightning flash cuts through the air and all is dark once again. Out of the darkness come grey little men with pitchforks, threatening the happy throng, taking all their money off them, and tying them up in miles of pointless red-tape. They are followed by scruffy oiks wearing string vests and looking feckless. Suddenly, we become aware of the long-strands of Arturo Scargmort’s hair. As the pernicious, sneering Commie porg enters, we see he is surrounded by bruisers with coal all over their faces and waving large clubs menacingly. Without warning, they sprout wings and fly about assaulting innocent miners and policemen for no reason. We see the words in jet black ‘Flying Pickets’. All is tumult and confusion as psychedeliccy footlight thingies swing about in a vaguely arty fashion, and then are gradually raised up to the skies.
Slowly and gracefully, a regal presence begins to descend, swinging a large handbag hither and thither and topped by blue-rinse big hair such as to render any blue-blooded Tory tumescent. She smiles to reveal a patriotic set of bulldog teeth that could only belong to the greatest politician of all time, Maggie Hatchet herself. Scargmort recoils and attempts escape, but he is too slow to avoid a full-on handbag-buckle around his lughole and a jolly good thing too. The light increases again to reveal the World Map once more, only this time lots of contented Londoners are cycling around on light-blue bikes, planting signs in all the capital cities marked ‘Barclays’. In a massive coup de theatre, the spotlight now exposes an entrance in the far corner of the stadium, and through it steps – in jaunty and confident manner – Bob Diamond. He waves to the crowd, and strides towards a microphone into which he shouts triumphantly, “Britain welcomes non-doms and is open for business!”
[Look here, I was going to have Rupert do this bit, but what with one thing and another there might be complications at Newscorp. I think we’re on a pretty good wicket with Bob, because he’s not the sort of chap to buckle under the weight of a lot of leftwing twaddle about how he runs his business. Also Lord Green is very keen on the idea, especially if some HSBC signs are stuck in the ground as well. I tried to get the Barclay Brothers, but they’re worried about too many Barclays causing confusion].
And so to the crescendo. A large trapdoor where some Russian lesbian haemaphrodite will shut the pot or something springs open, and a plinth appears, rising majestically to a height of some forty feet. Atop this solid-gold pillar stands, um, me. I read a poem in Greek about the Falklands, special relationships, Mitt Romney, the need for an Estuary airport, and a bit of fluff about the Olympic ideal in order to keep the proles happy. Dan Hannan then pops out of a cake* somehow and reads twenty quotations from Milt’s Little Blue Book. In the distance, an effigy of Marcus Brigstock burns merrily.
Then the Queen scowls at everyone and Jeremy Hunt declares the Games open. Lots of competitors enter and walk round the whatnot, you know – running track, carrying badly designed national flags and wearing fancy dress and waving a lot. Later there’ll be a bash for lane-permit holders only, with Lord Green working the room surrounded by Chinese walls.
*The Palace tells me the Middletons would be happy to supply this at cost. The cake, not Hannan.
The Slog had no trouble obtaining an annotated copy of these initial ‘thoughts’, as the security was being handled by G4S. Emanating as it does from the organising body Slowcoach, some of the margin notes are of passing interest. They include:
‘Might get flak from Miliband about political content’ TM
‘Superb triumph of obvious genius over minimalist style. I’m backing you all the way, Horace.’ JH
‘The women do not wear veils and I noticed some Jews in there. This must be changed or you will be hearing from my friends’. MB
‘Bigger role for PM?’ GO
‘Wonderful stuff, but where’s the athletics? What about a video-screen reprise of my Olympic triumph?’ Seb
Vaguely related in a surreal sort of way: Danny Boyle has a shot at 1936
The Slog 