It has been a dream of a two weeks, quieting the cynics and winning over the grumps.
We cannot, however, pretend last night didn't happen. For all of Danny Boyle's opening bravery and vision seemed to be hauled back towards the mediocrity the cynics and the grumps had been most 'afeared' would happen in the world's spotlight by a closing ceremony that just kept finding new lows. Lower even than George Michael's mimed groans.
Poor old Caliban was dragged in to compère again, this time Winston Churchill not Brunel dragging his bitter sweet poetry over the industrial coals. He wasn't the only one looking completely bemused as the relics of a moribund 'popstar' culture were wheeled out relentlessly, with too many duff notes and cringeworthy egos to even list.
They weren't even all deliberately hamming it up, this live Madame Tussauds installation of the Music Industry's Seven Deadly Sins that perhaps only lacked Madonna spanking Rolf Harris for sheer wrinkly luridness. It all played out in a hotbed of young musical talent and innovation that was completely untapped. Perhaps they were serving the frankfurters.
For all the talk of inspiring a generation and that word 'legacy' this seemed more like a disastrous comeback tour or a very very very bad trip. Like Caliban I was crying to sleep again and get back to the dreams.
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