Losing my marbles in Greece
All these recent Olympic openings and closings reminded me of when I nearly took part in the opening ceremony of the European Games.
As a student, I was enjoying a free holiday in Athens in return for attempting to improve the English vocabulary of some ex-professional football players (as one does).
These men, and I hesitate to define these guys above the status of overgrown schoolboys, were a mischievous bunch. As the games approached, outsize versions of the naked classical figure, the Discus Thrower, appeared at all major road intersections.
The statues came in separate components, each individually boxed. My footballer friends derived much amusement from the fact that the athlete’s manhood had a box all of its own.
My new pals decided they were going to steal one of these plaster appendages. Luckily, the city council foresaw such an event and fitted the rude bits at the very last moment, thus foiling any devilish plans. On one occasion, Nikos, their ringleader, got me into a party on the luxury yacht belonging to a famous fashion designer.
We were meant to cruise around sipping cocktails but the weather got up and we ended up sleeping on a rocky islet surrounded by flailing racks of drying squid.
The captain said I was very brave. Well, compared to the hysterical fashionistas surrounding me, I suppose I was. Meanwhile, the harbour authority was about to launch the search and rescue helicopter.
As well as being footballers, these hunky guys were also members of a leading folk-dance group and had been invited to take part in the launch of the Games.
Nikos, ever resourceful when it came to mad escapades, thought it would be funny if I joined them, and so it was that I got measured up for the full fustanella, the white pleated skirt as famously worn by the Evzones or Presidential Guard.
At the first rehearsal I was smuggled into the ancient marble arena, but it soon became all too obvious that I didn’t know my Hasapiko from my Sirtaki and the beady eye of the choreographer fell upon me.
My Greek friends saw big trouble brewing so hustled me into hiding under the seating bleachers, where I remained until the session ended.
These days, after many years of treading the boards in an assortment of inappropriate footwear, my calves are much admired. Back then as a pasty student, I don’t think my legs would have passed muster, no matter how many pompoms were employed to hide my knees. So, the ceremony went ahead without me, though my naughty footballer friend did secure me tickets for a similar prestigious event in the stadium, the unveiling of the new national flag.
As recounted in a previous column, my fellow college student and I found ourselves sandwiched between two fascist generals on the VIP podium.
‘So,’ said an unfeasibly braided and bemedalled military gentleman, ‘I hear you are a famous designer with the BBC?’
‘Yurp,’ I mumbled into the fizzy lemonade he had just handed me, secretly cursing Nikos and his henchmen.