Video:
China's big day arrives
12.09am
The Olympic torch is alight. The Games are begun. The drama is nigh and the
world awaits. As fireworks explode into the Beijing night and a people’s
army – an army of people – puff out their chests and let loose screams of
delight, we leave the opening ceremony with one final thought.
Didn’t they do well?
Midnight
Oooooooh. That’s how they’re doing it.
Li Ning has just been hoisted hundreds of feet into the air and is now running
around the upper perimeter of the stadium. Projectors are casting images of
the previous relay legs onto the background behind him, although for some
reason I can’t see any pictures from London. Nothing happened, there did it?
11.49pm
I’ll tell you what, that torch looks an awful long way up. Most of the
speculation around the stadium now is centred on how the bearer expects to
light it. I can’t see any stairs but a few of the flag carriers are
wondering around the track with a big duvet. Perhaps they’ll get someone to
bounce up and down on it and see if they can reach.
It’s another lap, of course. You can’t have an opening ceremony unless
everybody does a lap. And everyone who completes a lap laps it up as they do
so. It’s laptastic, this.
Sources tell me that the Bahamas team sneaked out a few hours back as they
were unable to cope with the heat. I know how they feel but you won’t catch
anyone from Team Times taking an early cut.
Sorry about that.
11.25pm
At last! It’s been on the go for more than three hours. Men have clapped,
women have cheered, children have cried and nations have come and go. But
finally, as the last semi-dry section of shirt sticks resolutely to my back
… enter the dragon.
The China team have plumped for red on this occasion. Reminiscent of Jonathan
Ross in the early 1990s, one could argue that it’s an all-too-predictable
outfit, but at least they’re not wearing chinos or flat caps.
Crowd noise has now reached a new level, the ferocity of its roar fuelled by
pent-up anticipation and national pride. For the first time tonight I feel
humble; this is their celebration and we are their guests. OK so it’s gone
on a bit, but you can’t deny it’s been a success.
Arrangements are made for the torch-lighting ceremony. We really are about to
begin…
10.50pm
Well there’s a turn-up. Biggest hand of the night goes to the US team, all of
whom are wearing navy blazers and white chinos, topped off with baggy caps.
The last American I saw wearing a baggy cap was Payne Stewart, but he got
away with it because he wore plusfours to complete the look. A missed
opportunity for the Stars and Stripes, methinks.
Apparently I am to look out for the Serbian ladies as they are “quite hot”,
texts Times reporter Will Pavia as he watches on one of the televisions in
the press centre. “The Swedes and Italians also scrub up awfully well.” When
didn’t they?
10.25pm
Not that anyone noticed. I expect Barry Davies is on the telly now, talking
about the proudest moment of Mark Foster’s life as the strapping, six-foot
plus swimmer holds the Union Flag aloft. But in truth, the Great Britain
team was treated as though it was the square schoolchild at China’s 16th
birthday party: not picked on, as such, but ignored as everyone chatted to
somebody more popular. I blame the blue chinos. C&A left the country for
a reason, you know.
10.17pm
Yes! There is much more of this! Much, much, much more before we can boast of
having seen all 205 competing nations walk at octogenarian pace around a
400-metre track, taking pictures of themselves on their mobile phones as
they go. Even the smog seems to have gone into a stupor, drifting away for a
bit of a snooze in the hope that someone will give it a prod before the
dancing pandas arrive.
Oh, for those pandas! What wouldn’t I give to see a bit of well-choreographed
bamboo chewing instead of all this. In fact they wouldn’t even have to
dance; they could just roll about a bit and play-fight. Anything but another
man in a cabin steward’s jacket waving at us as though we’re is best mates.
Oh but hang on … here comes Blighty!
10.05pm
Come on the Iraqis! It’s been a tough couple of years for the boys in green
and white, what with invasions, bloody civil war and a lack of decent
football pitches, but tonight they got one of the biggest cheers from a
crowd not usually given to away-end sympathy.
They were 80th on the list of entrants. Great Britain are 116th. As the man at
the end of the telephone line used to say when I called in my match reports:
“Is there much more of this?”
9.45pm
It’s typical. You wait seven years to stage the biggest party of your life,
invite a load of people you don’t know, decorate the flat exquisitely to
impress them and brew a shed-load of free punch. And then your best mate
goes and declares war on Georgia. How’s that going to go down the next time
Russia pops round to borrow a cup of sugar?
It’s hotter than an amorous oven’s underpants in here, but still the crowds
stand and cheer as those athletic heroes of Luxembourg, so-long admired in
this part of the world, stride gloriously by. This could be as close as they
get to the medals podium, but why should that stop them enjoying their
moment of obscurity as they delude themselves into thinking that the globe
is watching their every move?
And still the girls clap. And still they sway. Because they found their love
on wasteland, across the barricades.
9.26pm
I was going to give you a smog update but it will have to wait because, as
predicted, the athletes have started their procession around the
still-covered track of the stadium.
And there’s an awful lot of white out about. Do this lot double up as
ice-cream salesmen?
“I didn’t do anything in particular but I really looked forward to it,” was
the response from Yao Ming, China’s NBA star, when asked how he prepared for
his flag-bearing task. It’s that sort of casual, almost laissez-faire
attitude that gives a bad name to signal carriers everywhere, so it’s very
lucky for him that he didn’t drop it or trip over while ambling around the
obstacle-clear, eight-lane walkway.
Returning to the Top of the Pops theme, do you remember there always used to
be a gaggle of girls between the camera and Spandau Ballet who would clap
their hands and sway from side to side throughout the entire duration of
Beyond the Barricades? Well they’ve got about 500 teenagers doing that here,
and this ain’t no four-minute pop song. Hope someone’s booked a physio.
9.07pm
I can’t believe it! The man from the Daily Mail in the next seat to me has
dropped off!! Must have been the mood music.
Or perhaps he's conserving his energy for the arrival of the Olympic athletes.
I hope it’s not too far away as the nauseating male-female duet has just
started. Good God woman, give it a rest with the dewy eyes will you! Perhaps
it was your practise routine that caused Rogge to vomit.
8.58pm
Are you watching, London? Better scrap those plans for a pearly king and queen
procession, because China has set the bar high for all opening ceremonies to
follow. Thousands of acrobats in fluorescent yellow have just stolen the
mass-people formation idea from Howard’s Halifax Building Society adverts
but we can forgive them that. High above what will be the field area, a
little girl dangles precariously from a trapeze wire and, as she struggles
for mid-air co-ordination, it’s impossible not to be impressed by the scale
and bravado of the display.
But despite the visual excitement, my fear for the flailing infant is soothed
by a sudden change in musical backdrop. All of an instant the drums are
dropped and instead the person with the remote control switches to mood
music of the sort normally enjoyed by heavily pregnant women and Paul
McKenna. That’s better.
8.36pm
That cuteness didn’t last long. For some reason they’ve shipped in the Welsh
National Choir to sing the theme tune to the Omen. I knew it was too good to
last. Any moment now Jacque Rogge’s head will do a 360-degree turn and cover
us all with projectile vomit.
The noise! The clamour! The lights! It’s like back-to-back episodes of the Top
of the Pops Christmas Special, only this time with the Terracotta Army as
your hosts. And as two lines of ladies in blue move into formation,
shouldering giant fans to attention, I can’t help but think: I think we got
away with nicking those seats.
8.20pm
They’ve moved the tables, you’ll be glad to know. And now we’re into the
opening ceremony proper, the bit where China gets to sing about peace and
harmony and big fluffy panda bears. I mean, who are they trying to kid? This
is a nation built on military history as much as hard work and social
reform. You wouldn’t want to bump into the Red Army going the wrong way down
a dark alley, so why try to kid everyone with this pretence? They must think
we were born yesterd…. oh, look, it’s a cute kid in a red dress! And she’s
starting to sing!! Yaaaaay!
8.08pm (08/08/08)
And we’re off! An ominous drum roll, the thunderous crack of a thousand
fireworks and the roar of a mighty nation leads us into a rocket-laden
countdown. The crowd goes wild as the 2008 Olympic Games gets under way, and
as a result the folk down at the pitch tables start doing an oriental sort
of Haka. I don’t mind admitting I’m a bit scared.
7.50pm
My colleague Matt Dickinson has turned on the charm and is currently
negotiating with press liaison staff. But you don’t want to know about that,
you want to know about this…
Ten minutes to go and the skies above Beijing are darkening – not that it
affects vision much – and there are a load of tables all over the pitch. The
bloke who used to do funny voiceovers on Blackadder and Reeves and Mortimer
has just made an address about going out and doing us proud, but it’s going
to be tricky throwing a javelin with that lot in the way.
All over the stadium, flashbulbs are exploding like … well, like thousands of
exploding flashbulbs. And the smog, so often derided for its
lung-shrivelling tendencies, has taken on a look of beauty in the
fluorescent lights of the stadium. It’s quite romantic really, in a
totalitarian, hard-line Communist type of way.
7.19pm
China’s going to give the world a ‘big warm hug’ apparently. I don’t know
about you but I find that vaguely sinister. I mean, what's it code for? It’s
the sort of thing despots say in badly dubbed foreign films, just before
stroking the end of their Zapata moustaches and ordering a hit.
I’m already feeling nervous about this evening’s proceedings, having defied
official orders to sit in the press overspill section (without power and
internet connectivity) and stolen somebody else’s seat in the tabled area
(with power and internet connectivity). It’s bound to end in tears when some
bloke from the LA Times turns up, but in the meantime I plough on,
pretending I have ‘lost my ticket’. As a matter of fact, an official-looking
person is heading towards me now. . .
7pm local time (11am GMT)
It's the moment China has been waiting for. Queues formed of thousands still
snake away from the Bird's Nest, the magnificent edifice built to celebrate
what some are labelling China's Coming Out Party, but inside the atmosphere
is a fervent mix of excitement, anticipation and smog.
Oh yes, the smog. Turn your back on the dancers, block your ears against the
music and ignore what lies ahead: it's the smog that has been our constant
companion in the build-up to these Games and, when it came to the crunch,
the big fella in the particulate matter t-shirt didn't let us down.
How can I explain? It's like sitting in the bath with your clothes on. No,
better than that: it's like sitting in the bath with your clothes and a
raincoat on and the shower running at full blast and maximum temperature.
With lights and a big dragon thing in front of you.
You know some said we'd be able to taste the atmosphere in Beijing? They
weren't lying...
