London's joyful Games prove there is life on Planet Olympics

Katarina Johnson-Thompson, a 19-year-old heptathlete, shielded her eyes against the noonday sun and prepared to make her attempt at the high jump. She became aware that the 80,000 people clustered on the slopes of the Olympic Stadium were staring down on her, willing her to succeed.

So she heaved a mighty breath, bounced up to the bar and flung herself over in a personal best of 1.89metres. The crowd shrieked its ecstatic approval. When Katarina competes for Liverpool Harriers, an audience of 80,000 is an impossible dream. Yet the dream has been delivered, and her sense of wonder is shared by most of her colleagues.

For no previous Games has ever attracted such numbers to watch a session of heptathlon, along with the opening rounds of the men’s shot and hammer and the women’s triple jump. But these are the London Olympics and normal rules are gleefully suspended.

Magic moment: Katarina Johnson-Thompson clears the bar in the high jump

Never in the history of the modern Games has a nation been so captivated by sport’s most compelling spectacle. Nothing else matters. Somewhere out there, a Test match is going on. Somewhere, the usual suspects are preparing for the football season. Nobody seems to care. Instead, and starting with that astonishing opening ceremony, Britain has abandoned itself to Planet Olympics. Naturally, we must acknowledge an inevitable cargo of bean-counters, curmudgeons and conscientious objectors but their numbers are diminishing, along with their influence. Because these Games have seized the imagination in a manner way beyond our most ambitious hopes and expectations.

Over the past seven days, diligent research has taken me to the three-day event amid the glories of Greenwich Park. More than 50,000 crowded in for the cross-country section, which featured a princess named Zara and a patrician parade of hyphens. It laid the foundations for a British silver medal earned by high skills and robust courage. Later, Alice Fox-Pitt, wife of William, remarked that the home team had been ‘Soooo on the cusp of gold’. Another bemoaned the enforced absence of one Ms ‘Piggy’ French, who might have made a difference. And if gentle mockery was difficult to resist, then the skills and the courage were impossible to ignore.

On another day, I visited the women’s hockey at the Riverbank Arena, lured by the attractions of South Africa v Germany. The place was packed to raucous capacity by 15,000 fans and everybody behaved with the frantic exuberance of people who felt lucky to be there. The same was true of the wonderful madness of the velodrome, as well as the basketball arena, where 12,000 gathered to watch Nigeria v Lithuania. Sadly, a loutish chunk of Lithuania’s followers insisted on standing, screeching and booing whenever Nigeria won the ball. A number of neutral Britons took umbrage at the shabbiness of such behaviour and at least one affronted patron stormed off to complain to the duty volunteers. ‘It isn’t right,’ he insisted. ‘It just isn’t fair.’ From the nation which practically invented football hooliganism, this could be seen as cool cheek. Yet his anger was justified and his protest deserved sympathy.

For a phenomenon has occurred that even now we only dimly comprehend. The Games have persuaded vast numbers of our fellow citizens to behave in a healthier, happier fashion. In London, that most tenaciously reserved of capital cities, strangers are striking up conversations on buses and trains. Seized by a common Olympic interest, people are exchanging pleasantries, pooling information, swapping gossip and enjoying the buzz.

And the entire process is being carried out with an air of blushing disbelief, for the development seems wholly un-British and thoroughly admirable. Because we are, in truth, a friendlier, more engaging people than our staid image would suggest. We live in a land which takes justified pride in its stunning diversity and the warmth of its welcome. Yet we are emotionally stunted, constrained by stale custom, terrified of yielding to spontaneous impulse for fear of ridicule.

Capturing the imagination: People crowd the Olympic Park

But the Olympics have helped to tear down those barriers. They have teased out our better nature and liberated our virtues. No longer prisoners of our stultified, stiff-lipped past, we have made a real effort to become the kind of people we always hoped we might be.

It won’t last, of course. In a few weeks, the magic will fade, the buzz will evaporate, stern orthodoxy will descend, fascinating strangers will become bloody foreigners and a deafening silence will reign on our transport systems. Our sporting minds will turn to issues of Lampard’s contract, Rooney’s fitness and daft Joey’s deluded twittering.

So we must salvage what we can. We must remember those weeks when reality was rescinded and a beguiling insanity lit up our lives. And we must cherish that bright, shining moment when the capital became a kind of Camelot, the nation could throw off its restraints and a vast, entranced audience could watch with wonder as a young girl from Liverpool lived out her dreams at the London Olympics.

Fervent support: Fans cheer on triathletes

A faultless performance from a very British hero

When Helen Glover and Heather Stanning clambered from their boat after winning Britain’s first gold medal of the 2012 Games, the face they saw was that of Sir Steve Redgrave.

They fell into his arms and that huge, reassuring rock of a man embraced them for several poignant seconds, while the rest of us stared at our shoes and pretended that we weren’t really blinking.

When Katherine Grainger and Anna Watkins made the same euphoric journey two days later, they were swamped in the same embrace. This time we didn’t even try to hide our tears, so affecting was the scene, so moving the moment.

Redgrave played no official part in the glorious Olympic regatta, yet his influence was pervasive. Amid the plethora of pundits employed by the BBC, Redgrave’s views — along with those of the admirable Michael Johnson — have carried the most weight. Clearly, five gold medals at five Olympic Games lend his opinions a certain authority but he communicates that authority with the skills of a born teacher.

Olympic hero: Sir Steve Redgrave helps a shattered Alan Campbell out of his boat

There is no hyperbole about Redgrave, no high-flown phrases colour his conversation. Instead, he deals in understatement, watching every word.
He analysed the rowers’ emotions with a certainty born of experience. He laid out their strategic options, indicating his preferred choice. He forecast their fate with enviable accuracy and his words clearly enhanced the confidence of our golden women.

The small details were instructive. When the men’s pair, George Nash and Will Satch, came gasping on to dry land after their gruelling bronze medal, the commentator, John Inverdale, quite naturally advised them to ‘go away and lie down’.

Redgrave intervened, gently. ‘Keep moving around,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t stop.’ He had been at this point of exhaustion a time or two and he understood what the body needed. In its understated way, it was genuinely impressive.

There are certain individuals who command a special place in this nation’s affections. They are gruffly dependable, easily embarrassed, ferociously accomplished.

Steve Redgrave is such a person. A man you don’t meet every day. A very British hero.

PS

The men’s triple jump begins on Tuesday and nobody can say for certain if Phillips Idowu will turn up. For weeks and months, Idowu has been involved in a coy charade over his fitness and availability for the Games.

Tedious poseur: Phillips Idowu has behaves shamefully

Everybody, including his loyal coach, has been shamelessly used. At a time when British athletics has a marvellous story to tell, this tedious poseur has written his own shabby sub-plot. He should be told that his presence is not required. The Games will get along without him.