Olympics

The idea of national pride in the UK has been so fractured over the past fifty years that we have lost sense of who we are. The Britain that people like the Daily Mail will try and push you is a green and pleasant land, where people still work in pits and car factories. Making things. We used to be good at making things, they say. We drink tea and have a queen. We used to have an Empire and a massive Navy. Spitfires and maypoles. Stiff upper lip and all that. But the fact is, we lost this identity years ago; and since it was still being pushed to us as the general idea of ‘Britishness’ we’ve grown to loathe it, and hence ourselves. Even worse, this concept has been seized by hateful organisations such as the BNP and EDL in an attempt to falsely convince us of who we are. Throw in a complete economic crash, riots and the election of a Conservative government with a man who many believe was found originally as a lizard like creature on one of Saturn’s moons in charge, our sense of already thin national identity had become rock bottom. But then we had an Olympics.

Cynicism before the Olympics was very high, Lord Coe and his bunch maintained they were going to put on a hell of a show but still they were often shot down. As the old cliché goes, it’s easy to look back with hindsight but it is possible to see where the critics were coming from.  Exactly a year previously rioting had broken out in London, the worse the capital had seen for years; public spending was (and still is) being slashed left right and centre and, worst of all, in the weeks leading up to the games a number of minor disasters occurred – including the G4S scandal.

But during Danny Boyle’s opening ceremony, as we sat and watched and tweeted and texted each other in awe, all that washed away. We fell in love with ourselves again. But this time it wasn’t the tea drinking, stiff-upper lip Britain of before; this was modern Britain. Proper Britain. This was the Britain I was always proud of, but no one else seemed to be. A country where I can openly criticize my government (or call my leader a lizard creature from one of Saturn’s moons) without fear of repercussions. Where we allow thousands of migrants and refugees to leave their harsh lives behind and make a new fresh start. Where all religions, ever since Victorian times, can be openly practised and preached. Where good healthcare is not a privilege of the rich, but a right of everyone. A Britain that has created some of the greatest art, literature, poetry, music, theatre and film the world has ever seen. And a Britain that roared with pride at a Somalian-born, Muslim immigrant winning his second long distance gold medal of the games.Farah was asked at a press conference at the games by, I think, an Australian journalist why he chose to run for Britain instead of Somalia. What he said back will surely become part of British sporting folklore, ‘Look mate, this is my country. This is where I grew up, this is where I started life. This is my country and when I put on my Great Britain vest I'm proud. I'm very proud.’

And these words, spoken by a British, Somalian-born, Muslim who has become a national hero for me sum up every reason why I, yes, actually do feel proud to be British after all.