Mould rush

An East London nihilist refuses to let his dreams of Olympic glory die in this exclusive short story

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Taken from the October issue of Dazed & Confused:

All the Games Makers have left Stratford City. Apart from me.

Each morning I get up at 3am to prepare for the day ahead. I leave Wenlock in bed, get washed and then put on my uniform. I love slipping on those chinos. After cleaning my Adidas trainers with my Dame Kelly Holmes limited-edition toothbrush, I pack our lunch. In the good old days we used to get our Nature Valley Maple Syrup Flapjacks and Pringles for free, but for the past year I’ve had to provide them myself. Sometimes, when we’re really hungry, Wenlock makes me steal them from Asda. 

The 4am bus to the Olympic Village hasn’t been running as regularly as it used to, but that’s okay, we don’t mind waiting. Most days we walk there in the dark. You get used to the cold after a while. We do Mo-bots to keep the blood flowing.

Wenlock is going through one of his rough patches at the moment. Poor thing has terrible insomnia, never closes his eye. It’s hereditary, apparently. During the Games I thought he couldn’t sleep because he was so excited. We all were. Every night his best friend Mandeville would come over with some anabolic steroids he’d scored from Jimmy at the doping office. We developed a deep passion for Oxabolone and HGH. We’d crush it down, mix it with some vodka Red Bulls and huddle round the telly praying for a gold rush. One morning I woke up on the floor and saw the one-eyed monsters lubing each other up for Clare Balding’s equestrian report. I put it down to stress relief. The public just doesn’t understand how much pressure mascots are under. I never told them what I saw. I’m a team player.

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It was all going so well until the men’s ten-metre diving final. I should have been at the Aquatics Centre, but fucking Jessie Hopkins got the call. I would have given anything to touch Tom Daley’s little wet towel. Wenlock bought a paddling pool and some shrooms to make me feel better. We watched it intently, mouths open, toes pruning. When Tom only got a bronze I threw the TV out of the window. I climbed through the hole and stood on the ledge in my Speedos, crying for what seemed like hours. I felt like a newborn baby. The story made page eight of the Hackney Gazette. I sent a clipping to my parents. We got evicted the next day and had to watch the rest of the games at Paddy Power.

Wenlock started turning tricks to pay back the gambling debts we accrued. He doesn’t say much these days. He just stares through me. I think he’s still broken up about Mandeville. He disappeared the night of the closing ceremony. We heard rumours about him and Jimmy eloping with the Dutch women’s hockey team. Sometimes I wonder if Wenlock will still be there when I wake up.

I would have given anything to touch Tom Daley’s little wet towel. Wenlock bought a paddling pool and some shrooms to make me feel better

It’s so quiet around the Park now. Every day another part of our world gets torn down. Yesterday it was the north side of the basketball arena. The BMX stands went months ago. They had to call the police to get me to leave. I chained myself to the scaffolding on the top row overlooking the A12. It was where I saw Mariana Pajón strike Gold. Why didn’t you stop them, Tata!? That was OUR seat.  

When I was released, Wenlock persuaded me to do a pre-emptive strike on the Velodrome. I ripped off some of Zaha Hadid’s cladding and made a bivouac in the marshes. We’ve been spending a lot of time there recently. I use Wenlock as a pillow. It brings us closer.

I’ve heard rumours that the Games Maker Choir is touring the country, keeping the Olympic legacy alive. We went to one of the practices, but were politely asked to leave when I stormed the stage and tried to cut the conductor’s throat with the edge of my lanyard after she refused to play “First Steps” by Elbow. 
Sally Gunnell wrestled me to the floor. It’s sweet that the big stars still make such an effort. Thank Coe it wasn’t Whitbread.

Today, after I’ve finished directing lost tourists around Westfield car park and lobbing Molotov cocktails at The Orbit, I’m going to get my tattoo. I’ve been sketching it out for months. At first I was going to get the Olympic rings branded on my back with cattle irons, but I’ve decided to get the Locog logo inked on to my forehead instead. I hope it will inspire the next generation. Wenlock seems certain that it will secure our selection for 2016.

Keep an eye out for us, Rio.

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