Dudley, West Midlands.
March 1986
"...Und as you can see here - Barry is blowing on his poipe... und now that bulb, roight there at the end is starting to take shape. See there as it gets bigger?"
The guide wiggled his finger in emphasis, oblivious to his disinterested audience. Emilio, as if on cue, badly stifled a yawn; the intricacies of industrial glassblowing as ever escaping his interest. He pondered idly as to how this was even remotely relevant - what did glass have to do with sport? And come to think of it, were they even in the right city? The locals really didn't seem to think so - and there was yet another impenetrable accent to deal with. He hadn't exactly noticed verdant meadows on their car journey. "Conurbation". Now there was a word of appropriateness ugliness, far removed from its Latin roots. But in the spirit of fairness he'd have to grant his hosts credit for trying; when your city was younger than the United States, this kind of thing passed for "heritage".
"There y'are look? See that?" the guide showed around the formed glass - some sort of vase? Emilio showed a passing interest. He wasn't the only one shuffling his feet either. Almost to feign interest he reached for his brochure. He flicked a few pages in. Some horse-faced woman... Wait... she was royalty? He turned back a page and began to read from the introduction.
"This brochure will give you an idea of the real thing: the real thing will be better."
He blinked. It actually said that? Hell, one of these interminable mornings he quite expected to wake up at the... what was it, the "Travelodge"? To wake up and find out that this was all an elaborate practical joke at the Committee's expense. Britain's "number one provincial city" the bid claimed, apparently without a shred of irony. Emilio was fluent in English after all, he'd definitely have picked up on irony. That said, his Oxford-educated tutor hadn't exhibited quite the same verbal cadences he heard on the streets around here. It was a kind of sing-song language - where every song was a requiem.
"The Games may still seem a long way off - but already we're thinking ahead in anticipation of the vital role our buses will have to play in this important event-"
"Mister Der Coster?"
Emilio Da Costa looked up. He'd been preoccupied with the brochure's advertisements. Each was more unfathomable than the last.
"We'll just be 'eadin' back to the buzzes now, if that's alright with you?"
"Yes, yes, okay."
That was it then, for today. Back on the coach and back to the hotel for a dinner of something bland and unfilling. Maybe he'd escape instead to one of those well-rated Bengali places... He climbed up into the coach. Stuffy and uncomfortable though it was, it beat another five minutes at the Glass Museum. He returned to his seat. With no-one else on the delegation much caring to talk, he turned back to the brochure. It surpassed looking at the scenery, just about. He idly appraised some pretty models - they were supposed to be models weren't they? - on one of the inside pages. That brightened up the dreary document at least. As for the rest - the more Emilio read, the more he was mystified by the incongruous mix of modesty and ambition. It was enough to make him feel sorry for them - to have gone to so much trouble in their bid. It HAD to be a joke didn't it? What was that English idiom again?
"To pull his leg"? They couldn't seriously want to host the Olympics? Here?
The coach was moving now, albeit interminably slowly. They'd hit "rush hour" apparently, but Los Angeles this was not. One of their guides was working his way up the aisle, apparently doing his best to schmooze and entertain members of the delegation. He reached Emilio's row.
"Y'alright there Mister Der Coster?" the guide's voice rang in a cheery monotone.
Emilio fixed a false smile "Yes, Mr Howell. Thank you."
"Anything we can get you? Tea, coffee, beer?"
"No, thankyou." A denial of self-preservation. He'd rather drink his own effluent than what passed for the latter two beverages around here. And the tea was like rain. Appropriately so, it seemed, as specks appeared on the steamed up glass, while dull low clouds added another few shades of grey to the vista.
"Okay, well you just let me know if you fancy anything, alright?" Dennis Howell moved on up the aisle.
Emilio nodded. Who was he anyway? Some old politician or something? He wasn't even part of the government. Him and that creepy one with the eyebrows. Second rate hosts in a second rate city...
"You know we've got more canals that Venice, Mister Der Coster!" Dennis shouted back down the coach, an attempt at a 'fun fact'. Emilio winced, both at the constant repetition of the inane factoid, and at the effective insult to his hometown.
This was worse than fucking Belgrade, he thought - at least even the Communists didn't believe their own bullshit! He slumped back into his seat, while the radio-distorted melodies of Diana Ross piped through the coach.
You gotta plan, your future is on the run/
Shine a light for the whole world over.
[*]
BBC WORLD SERVICE
April
... With major flooding endemic across tens of thousands of square miles, the State of Queensland has declared a state of emergency. The Australian Government has already deployed navy vessels to assist with relief efforts, with disaster relief personnel coming from as far afield as New Zealand and Tasmania. Meteorologists have declared that the floods to date are the worst since those of 1974, with that year's record likely to be exceeded in the days ahead. Particularly badly affected has been the city of Brisbane, with damages set to rise into the billions of Australian dollars. The heavy rains that brought flooding to north-eastern Australia have come at the end of a long dry summer that previously saw outbreaks of wildfire...
June
...The tragic collapse of a new office building in the Yugoslavian capital of Belgrade is providing further bad publicity for that country's communist authorities, after it has been revealing that the building in question was part of a showpiece development, designed to promote the city's 1992 Olympic bid. With an inferior concrete mix thought to be the cause of the collapse, the structural integrity of the remainder of the development has been heavily called into question. Yugoslavian officials have denied all allegations, particularly those relating to accusations of corruption...
July
...the fourth day of rioting in the French capital. With tensions high both inside and outside of the city it remains impossible to determine just what first triggered the rioting, though it understand that the epicentre was in the deprived suburbs to the south-west of the city. While we can only speculate that said deprivation may have led to the scenes we have seen today, what is apparent is that the situation has been exacerbated by the fierce heatwave gripping north-eastern France...
August
...Over three thousand ecological protesters gathered today in central Amsterdam to oppose the city's Olympic bid, which they claim not only threatens conservation in ecologically sensitive area but also increases the risk of flooding in the low lying country. While the ambitious Dutch bid has attracted a number of critics from the beginning, these have previously represented a distinct minority of the population. However with the recent withdrawal of a number of competing bids, Amsterdam's previously outside chances of hosting the games have significantly improved. At the same time criticism over not only the ecological but the economic costs of hosting has also increased...
September
... In the aftermath of last week's terrorist attack in Barcelona there have been dramatic revelations that the Spanish intelligence services may have been forewarned. It is alleged that the account of an ETA informant was passed on by Spanish police but may have been ignored. Already the attack is having a damaging effect upon tourism figures, and these revelations look set to further overshadow the city's Olympic bid...
[*]
Lausanne, Switzerland.
October 1986
The International Olympic Committee Session was deadlocked. Not quite deadlocked - that would go so far as to imply that there were two equal options between which they were tied. This situation was one much less easily resolved. In a sense they still had two options, only... well one wasn't an option, and the other...
wasn't an option... so to speak. In an entirely different sense that is. Which meant that the option that wasn't an option but which was still more of an option than the option that literally wasn't an option - well, that was what they'd have to choose, ultimately. Wasn't it? They were in no haste to make that choice.
How exactly did one express a non preference in preferential runoff voting?
"Is there anything to be said for reopening the bidding process?" The call had inevitably gone around, and there had been murmurs of assent. Quite loud murmurs. Some of the Committee had gone away and studied the precedents, and yes, it was feasible. But it would be farcical wouldn't it? Five of the six bids ultimately withdrawn, and the IOC still couldn't cast a decisive vote! And then what? Wait until next year, and risk there not being a '92 summer games? No... not after the fiscal hole they'd spent a decade trying to climb out of. It was too much to risk.
But around and around had gone the arguments against. Concerns about the quality of the bid, the ability of the would-be host city to deliver, the commitment of the national government. The IOC was notionally above matters of international politics - but that wouldn't stop members from the third world bringing up South Africa, or the closeness of Anglo-American relations. Did they really want another boycotted games?
No, this session had gone on long enough, they
had to come to a decision, one way or the other. Juan Antonio Samaranch, President of the IOC, reached for a coffee mug in lieu of a gavel. This deliberation, this prevarication had to end. He brought the chamber to order (and his mug to pieces). "Delegates, we must reach a decision!" And so they balloted.
They result was not unexpected, though an unflatteringly high pile of spoiled papers was tactfully kept from the world's press. Samaranch climbed up to the press gallery podium. Rattling through a formal preamble with rather less reverence than was appropriate, he took a deep breath. This was it, they were committed now...
"After much consideration... the International Olympic Committee awards the 1992 Summer Olympic Games to the city of Birmingham!"
Cameras flashed as journalists' voices crashed into a cacophony of simultaneous questions, but Samaranch brushed them away. He stepped down from the podium, and effectively from his position.
The world wouldn't understand of course. But really, under the circumstances the IOC found themselves in, it was the best thing that they could do.