Boyle’s Britain – bang on

As countless breakfast shows, not mentioning Radio 4 by name, have reminded us all week: “The eyes of the world are watching, London”. Question was, at the opening ceremony, would Boyle’s Britain have them at hello, sheep, or lose them at Fish muttering: “Hurricane, what hurricane”?

I had an in-house barometer of international comprehension and appreciation for the evening – a Canadian journalist pal staying for the Games. We GB-ed it up, sipping gin and tucking into silver containers of tandoori – preferring to save that £2,012 ticket price for some (unpredicted) wet weather.

Five minutes in, said Canadian asked if she could call it “a bit corny”. I settled on “maybe a tad twee”. Tom-ar-toes, tom-ay-dose. But that was just the Tellytubbyesque opener. Once the drums kicked in – respect to their biceps by 1am – coal burned, and the child catcher materialised, the cynics were satisfied. The contrast between the pained, vacant stares of soldiers in poppies, and Mr Bean’s index finger jabbing out Vangelis – that was truly British. That was inspired.

Anyone wondering where all the NHS beds had gone in the past decade could be satisfied it was Stratford. And the dancing nurses provided a wonderful two-fingers to our coalition. Subtle anarchists. Can there be anything more unnerving than faintly sarcastic jazz-hands?

As the nations paraded with flags, the USA bringing half their population, we called for a little drum and bass to make the athletes walk as fast as they are presumably able. In this entertainment interim – admittedly the reason for it all – I learnt that if there’s a country I’ve never heard of, the chances are it’s in the South Pacific.

Both the Canadian and I misunderstood the commentators throughout, hearing “kettles” every time they mentioned “petals”, and concluding the most British of all endings was coming up – a nice cup of tea for everyone.

Meanwhile, nobody’s sure how it’s still obligatory to drag Macca in to wrap up any British ceremony. I thought we’d got away with it when he refrained from reeling out Hey Jude at the Jubilee. But no, and this rendition lasted as long as the competitors’ flag walk. As he went on – and on – in the style of a sadistic fitness instructor, shouting “one more time”, it was decided that no, Sir, not one more time, never again, please. In fact, Hey, Jude – there should be a Law against this…

But, “Judy, Judy, Judy” aside, the spectacle was bang on the money – even if debatably not 27 million of it. And best of all, they kept John Terry away from lighting the cauldron.

Panama weren’t wearing panamas in their flag walk – they’d all taken them off to Danny Boyle. Like me, a Canadian, and much of the world this morning.