Citius, Altius, Fortius

Tweet

It's all over now, Baby Blue. 

What a great Bob Dylan song that is. And of course the line does not refer to him, 75 years old and still rockin' and rollin'. Playing concerts on what he has dubbed his "Never Ending Tour" that kicked off on 7 June 1988. That's right - 1988.

This is all about what has just come to a conclusion in Rio de Janeiro, the Olympic (Summer) Games. So consider this a Rio Special.

But before I start, let me get the following observations off my chest - and I realise I may well be fighting a losing battle with journalists, reporters, and commentators:

First, The Olympic Games or, for short, The Olympics are plural nouns (easily identified by the ending -s). So whatever you may have thought of them, they have now ended. Were they the best Games ever, as some will have you believe? 



I'm not sure - unless of course you hold a British passport and understandably take delight in the admirable adventures, extraordinary exploits, and truly thrilling triumphs of "Team GB".

Second, the word "medal" is a noun, not a verb. You can't "medal" in the Olympic Games - you can only win a medal.

Third, an "Olympiad" is the period of four years between two Olympic Games, not the event itself. Hence, "Rio" were officially The Games of the XXXI Olympiad.

Call me old-fashioned, call me obsessive-compulsive (as my children do), call me plain pedantic; in fact, call me what you will, but I do cringe every time I have to endure any or all of the above abominations. As I have countless times over the past two weeks.

I am happy to report Team GB has safely returned home. On board flight BA 2016 (with its nose painted gold) were the 300-something athletes, their coaches, doctors, and helpers, and all their equipment. And their 67 Gold, Silver, and Bronze medals which, as one more-than average awed reporter worked out, weigh in at a total of 45 kilos.

Nowhere are the medals attributed more momentous meaning of course than in the, you guessed it, Medal Table - that monument to patriotism, nationalism, or jingoism, depending on your view point. And it is indeed a remarkable achievement for "this small island nation" to have secured second place, only behind the United States, but ahead of China. A huge boost for all jubilant Brexiteers who otherwise have gone remarkably quiet since their own unexpected victory back in June. 

Q: "Is there a plan?" A: "No, of course there is no plan."

What's more, another pundit who got a little carried away proudly announced if you took out the swimming competitions where the Americans traditionally do extremely well - never mind that this is one of the core disciplines of the Olympics, along with Track and Field Athletics, as opposed to, say, indoor track cycling at which Team GB are unbeatable - Great Britain would be, so to speak, "on the top of the world lookin' down on creation".

Remember the Carpenters and their 1973 hit "Top of the World"? An American singer and instrumental duo, siblings Karen and Richard were among the most successful music artists of all time, with three Number One and five Number Two singles on the Billboard Top 100, even though their career spanned only 14 years (1969 - 1983) as Karen sadly died from heart failure linked to anorexia at age 32. Their other hits included "Close to You", "We've Only Just Begun", "Rainy Days and Mondays", and "Yesterday Once More". Paul McCartney, who knows a bit about music, called Karen Carpenter "the best female voice in the world: melodic, tuneful, and distinctive". Now that's what I call an accolade, Sir Paul. And for what it's worth, I am so with you on this!

Coming back to the inevitable Medal Table, and since the Americans are still swimming strong and will be allowed to continue doing so, Team GB is indeed the overall runner-up of these Olympic Games - but only based on the number of Gold Medals won (27-26), the Chinese and others may object. Because you see, it's not quite as clear-cut as all that since there is at least one other method of ranking, taking into account the total number of medals won overall. And in this table, China would again leap-frog Great Britain (70-67). 

Just out of curiosity, there is a third school of thought in this ever-so-important matter whereby the categories of medals are weighted by their importance. If you subscribe to this method and apply the rule three points for Gold, two for Silver, and one for Bronze, the result is: United States 250, Great Britain 144, China 140. 

A further variation on this theme is based on the belief that only winning really counts, and therefore Gold medals should be awarded four points to the two for Silver and one for Bronze. In this case, the outcome is: United States 296, Great Britain 171, China 166. Not to mention in too much detail yet another approach mooted by some - weighting the number of medals by population size.

To quote Martin Sandbu (Financial Times): "As always, bigger countries win more often, and when measuring medals per population, Britain drops from second to tenth place (even lower if medal-winning micro-states are included), behind Jamaica, New Zealand, Croatia and Denmark, among others. But the UK can fairly claim to be the best-performing largish country in Rio."

"Medal-winning micro-states" - I love it! Name three.

So much for the arithmetic of medals. You decide for yourself. As far as I'm concerned, on this I side with former British Prime Minister Tony Blair: "Do I look bothered?" And, just for clarity, that was a rhetorical question.

From a German perspective - and I do admit rooting for the "home team" on such occasions - whichever way you cut it, "we" are firmly in fifth place, and that's just fine with me. Oh, yes, we did take in over a million refugees over the past year or so, but that's another story. National, societal, and financial resources better spent maybe? Sour grapes, some will say.

My personal highlights of what I was able to watch on TV? 

In ascending order, here are my Top Three:

Bronze medal: Usain Bolt winning his ninth Gold at three consecutive Olympics - the much-acclaimed "Triple Triple" over 100 m, 200 m, and in the  4 x 100 m relay team. There are nasty rumours, however, that one of his co-runners of eight years ago in Beijing may have in the meantime been tested positive, in which case our hero would also be stripped of his medal. 

Honestly, I ask myself where and for how long they keep all those myriads of urine and blood samples, hoping for the scientific methods of detection to catch up with the dopers' ingenuity. And here was I thinking that nuclear waste posed a long-term storage problem.

And let me just say that we all must hope never to have to be disabused of our firm belief that Usain Bolt's prowess indeed only came from a pretty unique genetic predisposition, a training routine that was harder and more effective than anybody else's, and all that delicious white meat he had as a child growing up on his parents' chicken farm cum grocery store.

Silver medal: The men's football final between Brazil and Germany, played in the legendary Maracana Stadium where of course Germany won the World Cup two years ago. It was hyped up as the host nation's opportunity to wipe away the shame, embarrassment, and pain caused by the ignominious 1-7 defeat against Germany in the Semi Finals of that tournament (the game was, however, played in Belo Horizonte). 

To wit: The Olympic men's football competition is entered by "U-23" teams, meaning all players must not yet have celebrated their 23rd birthday, I think when the qualifying rounds begin, with three members of the squad allowed to be older. 

This formula is the result of a compromise between the all-mighty FIFA that is obviously keen on safeguarding the value - athletic, media-wise, and therefore financial - of the World Cup, its own stand-out competition, and the IOC that does want to have the world's biggest sport included in their Olympic Games. And a lot of people think otherwise by the way. On this question - should football be played at the Olympics at all? - please allow me to do what I generally do best and firmly sit on the fence.

Timed to perfection to coincide with the beginning of the new football season in most countries, certainly across Europe, even assembling a squad of juniors proved an almost insurmountable conundrum. No player who had featured in the European Championship was eligible, no player newly signed to his club was released, and many of those that might have been selected preferred to stay at home in order not to lose their chance of making it into the starting Eleven with their employer from Day One.

Team GB did not bother.

The German coach, Horst Hrubesch - one of my all-time favourites, no, heroes; do google him if interested in finding out more about this impressive sports-man - gave the German Olympic federation a list of 65 names, and when they had finished phoning up all the clubs, he was left with 18 guys who literally met for the first time at the airport in Frankfurt where they boarded the plane for Brazil, a few days before their first match.

For the home team, super star Neymar jr, who due to injury missed that game against Germany in 2014, being the self-indulging individual he is (I'm at great pains to avoid narcissist), heroically "volunteered to lead the young Brazilian team through the Olympic tournament". How could his club, mighty Barcelona, deny him this mission of truly historic dimensions?

Anyhow, to cut a longish story short, in front of 75,000 Brazilian fans the game ended 1-1 after 90 minutes, 1-1 after Extra Time, and consequently went to a penalty shoot-out. The first four players of both teams scored, then the fifth German missed, and you will never guess who had selected himself to take the final, all-deciding kick should it come to this. Neymar scored and restored, at least in his and his compatriots' view, the honour of the proud Brazilian nation. The stadium was very loud at that point.

The next morning, Neymar had the Olympic rings tattooed on his arm. Yes, there was still some space left which he had no doubt reserved for this purpose some time ago.

Just for completion's sake: Germany won the women's football tournament, in which the best players are allowed to participate, by beating Sweden 2-1. The Scandinavians had eliminated Brazil in the Semi Final, also on penalties. As a consequence, the stadium was empty for the Final. 

The football double would have been so nice...

But please bear with me - before I come to my own Number One Rio Olympics experience, I do have to tell a wonderful story in the context of visitors to Maracana and their impact on the mood of the home crowd.

In 1950, the afore-mentioned FIFA World Cup was also hosted by Brazil, with 16 countries participating. Primarily to make the long trans-Atlantic trip for the Europeans worth their while, the formula of the tournament, however, did not follow the principle of knock-out stages producing two teams to play the final. Instead, for the only time in the history of the competition, the four group stage winners qualified for a round-robin final round, each playing the other three and thereby guaranteeing them more games.

As the football gods would have it, based on the previous results the last game still turned out to be the Final to all intents and purposes. On 16 July 1950, it matched mighty Brazil with tiny neighbour Uruguay. Brazil only needed a draw to win the World Cup. And the unthinkable happened: The underdogs won 2-1, the decisive goal scored in the 79th minute by a certain Alcides Ghiggia. The whole host nation, not just the crowd of 199,854 (!) in the stadium, was in shock, torpor, denial. To date, everybody in Brazil knows the expression "the Silence of Maracana".

In his book Futebol. The Brazilian Way of Life (2005), author Alex Bellos compared Ghiggia's shot at goal and the bullet that killed John F. Kennedy as having "the same dramatic pattern... the same movement... the same precision of an unstoppable trajectory. They even have the dust in common that was stirred up, here by a rifle and there by Ghiggia's left foot". 

That's what I call Making History. A duo of epochal dates: 7.16.50 meets 11.22.63!

Of course, Alcides Ghiggia became a legend not just in his home country. He delighted in telling the story of his goal over and over again, and since he lived to the ripe old age of 88 (he died on 16 July 2015 - exactly 65 years after scoring that goal), he had ample opportunity to do so.

His classic punch line: "Only three people managed to silence the Maracana: Frank Sinatra, the Pope, and me." 

Simply wonderful as I hope you agree.

Gold medal: The women's Beach Volleyball Final between, you couldn't make this up, Germany and Brazil. Even better, the German team had already beaten the other Brazilian duo (that's a "triple duo" now - Carpenters, remember?) in the Semi Finals. I became a huge fan of this sport four years ago during the London Olympics: the rules are easy to understand, the action is exciting to follow, and the duo of venues in both cases was superb - first the Horse Guards in central London and now Copacabana ("quadruple duo"!). Beach Volleyball literally came home to where it originated.

Anyhow, Laura Ludwig and Kira Walkenhorst never left in doubt who would win - again playing in front of a capacity crowd that was, let's say, temperamental, noisy, and less-than-bi-partisan. And that also, once the game was over, didn't even bother to stay on for the medals' ceremony. Shame really as they missed a wonderful moment that included their own team. 

I'm all the happier I witnessed it.

In the interest of full disclosure: This is the only event I set my alarm clock for to get up at 04:00 am. Usain Bolt I only happened to catch as I fell asleep in front of the TV, as I sometimes will even on important occasions, and miraculously woke up just in time for the relay final. 

Serendipity. 

One of my favourite words in the English language. According to the Merriam Webster dictionary it means: "luck that takes the form of finding valuable or pleasant things that are not looked for". A much better definition I once read somewhere else: "diving into the hay stack looking for a needle and coming out with the farmer's daughter".

The title of a great movie released in 2001, too, starring John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale - "Destiny... with a sense of humor" as the tag line says. To me, it's the intelligent version of Sleepless in Seattle (1993) with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. I think I may have said this before, but you be the judge.

Meanwhile, back in Rio, the question is asked: was it all worth it? As the city's mayor, Eduardo Paes, elected in 2008, put it a few days before the opening ceremony - the Games must serve the city, and not the city the Games. But then, he would have said that, wouldn't he. And maybe it was for a good part wishful thinking.


Not too long ago, the citizens of Montreal were still paying off the debt for the 1976 Olympic Games if I'm not mistaken.

So, from a purely financial perspective in all likelihood it was not worth it. And like their predecessors around the world, the Cariocas as the locals are called - live and learn - are now in addition left with the brick-and-mortar symbols to remind them of the costs of their two-week party for all time - the stadia, arenas, and other buildings that nobody will ever have a need for again. "White Elephants" in the purest sense of the term.

But what about the "feel-good factor", hard to define or quantify as it is anyway, that we were told prevailed for a fortnight, in spite of seeing far too many empty seats at all but a few events? 

Again, experience indicates it's not sustainable. Ask the Londoners four years on. 

So next it will be Tokyo's turn. There are already indications of the Olympic arms race syndrome kicking in. Every hosting city wants to stage "the best Games ever", and some can afford it more than others. Tokyo, I have heard, is out to prove this point over Rio.

Which brings me to a proposal well worth considering - and while I've been thinkin', I wish I could claim it was my idea. It is not. But I do kinda like it.

In a nutshell, why not get all member nations of the IOC to chip in, according to GDP or other mutually agreeable economic metrics; build state-of-the-art, permanent sports and, equally important, broadcasting facilities in Olympia, Greece; construct hotels and an Olympic Village to boost tourism during the Olympiads; maybe throw in an airport that connects at least with Athens; and hold the Olympic [sic] Games there every time in future, following the ancient blueprint. 

After all, the Olympic [sic] flame is still ignited in Olympia every four years - so much for authenticity, credentials, and genius loci. 

Yes, there would be periodic renovation works to be done. Yes, there would need to be a plan in place to put the buildings during the four years in-between Games to good use; and yes, maybe every now and then, additional venues or arenas may have to be created, or existing ones converted, to stage events introduced to the program.

On this note, and by way of trivia for your next pub quiz, did you know that for 2020 these new sports will be Karate, Skateboarding, Sports Climbing, and Surfing? I'm happy to confirm from my own experience that you can sail and surf to your heart's delight off the coastline of the Peloponnese, and I'm sure the other three can easily be accommodated.

The romantics and die-hard proponents of "spreading the Olympic Spirit across nations and continents while giving developing countries a shot at proudly presenting themselves to the world" will obviously be upset, insulted, outraged. But you know what, I think the world has moved on and this new model is fit for the 21st Century. 

It can be no coincidence that a number of cities in the recent past have decided to say "thanks but no, thanks" to the prospect of hosting the Games and dropped out early on from the race, in some instances after asking their own citizens and tax payers what they thought of the plan.

If implemented, this solution would decrease overall spending dramatically while boosting sustainability; discourage nationalistic sentiment and the unappetising phenomena it feeds like large-scale, state-sponsored doping programs (and I'm maybe not the only one to see a link here - remember the Sochi Winter Olympics of 2014?); and, last but not least, once and for all do away with the appalling corruption linked to the bidding processes for hosting the event in the first place - no more greedy palms of octogenarian IOC members to grease, no more obscene expenses to pay, no more outrageous extravaganzas to stage - and for the local construction projects once the Games have been "awarded" to the successful candidate city. Of the latter, Rio was a prime exhibit.

But now maybe I'm the starry-eyed romantic. "Imagine" (John Lennon)...

Staging the Games for all times in Olympia, allowing them also to "come home" after almost two millennia, would for sure be a decision of historic dimensions. But it would also be a brave one, a far-sighted one, and a rational one. Oh, and would somebody please let Tokyo know.

Because you know what - The Times They Are A-Changin'!

It would of course terminate the IOC's "Never Ending Tour" which started in 1900 when the modern Olympic Games, after their launch in Athens in 1896, were held in Paris. 

If done soon enough for Bob Dylan still to be on his, I would suggest he should be invited to play at the Opening Ceremony.

"Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there ain't no place I'm going to
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle mornin' I'll come followin' you"

What Drama

Tweet

I've been travelin', far and wide. And I've been thinkin', long and hard.

Now I'm back from these quite arduous yet educational and productive ventures and find in the meantime the world seems to have conspired to want to go to hell in a hand basket, as the saying goes.

“We don’t know where we’re going, but we’re making great headway.” Yogi Berra

So please consider this a catch-up post, and I promise to reward you for your patience by eventually arriving in the present and writing about something you haven't just already heard but in the meantime forgotten, with everything that's going on.

I went to visit the Antipodes. No, that’s not our charming neighbour family from Greece who live down the street, soon to be deported from Little England, in all likelihood along with your faithful blogger. Brefugees all of us. I actually went to call on the good folks in New Zealand. 

Having safely returned a while ago already, I wish to report that, contrary to what some people may still think or tell you, the Antipodes do not walk upside down. However, there are other unintended consequences of living in the Southern hemisphere: the water in the bathroom sink whirls around counter-clockwise, the sun moves from East to West through the North - where it stands at High Noon / and winter solstice is in June. Rhyme fully intended.

Which is kind of cool, because they actually get to celebrate Christmas twice. In December, they have barbecues on the beach; at mid-year, the restaurants are decorated with fake fir trees covered in equally fake snow, and over the loudspeakers they play ”Silent Night”, the real thing, for atmosphere.

  

Coming back to my last, no doubt by now long forgotten blog post, and just to keep you from googling: no, even Down Under Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland – some time soon maybe only of England and Wales – and her loyal subjects do not get to celebrate her birthday four times each year.

Speaking of unintended consequences – I do feel strongly about the fact that a whole generation or two of young British citizens have been sold down a River of No Return (hold the term) by Brexit and all the old people above 65 who voted for "Leave", the Baby Boomers who have done rather well for themselves during their country's membership in the European Union, thank you very much. But then, who needs free access to 27 other nations, their culture, their universities, their economies, their jobs, and their people anyway when things are so hunky dory at home, right? 

Buyer’s remorse, in case some people are feeling it by now, in this instance cannot be remedied at the next election in five years’ time. This hangover is here to stay I'm afraid. What drama.

Which neatly brings me to the football of course, the hangover that is. The Euro 2016 tournament was largely devoid of drama and must have been one of the most disappointing such events in a long time. Whoever thought inflating it to 24 teams would do anything for its quality clearly wasn't thinking, their vision impeded by the proverbial dollar signs in their eyes. The occasional drama was in penalty shoot-outs, with Germany of course right there in the thick of it again - for as long as it lasted.

The final itself was dramatic only in the pictures of the injured Cristiano Ronaldo manhandling his coach on the touch line to prevent him from giving the players on the field any instructions that interfered with CR7's own calls. Is this a way to treat an elderly gentleman? That a side as destructive, unimaginative, and plain mediocre as Portugal, devoid of their one player of flair, won in the end was a fitting outcome to the proceedings.

But as far as England's team is concerned, I just can't resist pointing out it's all coming together now - there is a big picture that I invite you to view with me. 

Finally freed from the fiendish foreign factions of France and the f***ing rest of Europe - now that's what I call an alliteration - I have it from a reliable source in Whitehall that the new government will shortly start negotiations with Iceland for free movement of people with the goal [sic] of an “ever closer union” culminating in a “North-Atlantic Super State”. There has got to be a way to tap into those 200-odd football players! 

Of course, permanent immigration is not on the cards. The plan is just to include a stand-alone category for "unaccompanied young men in shorts ably kicking a round ball" in the famous Points System everybody is pinning so much hope on now and fly them in and out as needed for training sessions and games. 

A diplomatic challenge truly worthy of Foreign Secretary Boris Johnson, helped by the fact that I think politicians from Iceland are actually on the rather short list of people he has not insulted at one point or another in the past. What drama.

And while we are scouting the North Atlantic – who else is out there, waiting to be brought into this new English Empire?

No, forget it, Greenland is a Danish territory, and Denmark is in the European Union, so that’s out. But maybe approach the Faroe Islands? After all, they defeated Greece - arguably the cradle of all that European nonsense, and then some - not just once, no: twice. Only after which the Greek national Coach, an Italian gentleman called Claudio Ranieri became available to take over not-so-mighty Leicester City and turn it into an English-Premier-League beating football Champion Team. With the help of King Richard III and King Power, granted.

Bottom line: There is hope yet. And anyhow, what could possibly go wrong with all that Icelandic and Faroe talent under the capable leadership of "Big Sam" Allardyce, hugely experienced in international football as he is? Sam Who? That's right, constant foreign readers - well may you ask the question.

I think the real problem is that no-one qualified actually wants "the England job" anymore these days, not even Heimir Hallgrimsson, the part-time dentist working as national coach in Reykjavik.

It's been fifty years last weekend that England won the World Cup as host nation of the 1966 tournament. Never mind that "The Third Goal", aka "The Wembley Goal" sprang from the imagination of "The Russian Linesman", Tofiq Bahramov who actually hailed from Baku in the proud nation of Azerbaijan which at the time was part of the Soviet Union. 


If you don't believe me - and I am old enough to have watched the game live on black-and-white TV, what you call an eye witness - please refer to studies conducted since both at Imperial College London and the University of Oxford that came to the conclusion the ball was at least six centimetres away from having crossed the line in its full circumference. There!

And yes, England did score a fourth goal at the very end of extra time, but by then the playing field had already been invaded by many of the fans in attendance on the day - another clear irregularity. To quote the live BBC commentator, Kenneth Wolstenholme: 

"And here comes Hurst. He's got... some people are on the pitch, they think it's all over. It is now! It's four!" What drama.

But be it as it may, and I did not develop a childhood trauma from that admittedly painful experience, to me two things from the ample media coverage commemorating the day stand out. 

First, the image of Germany's team captain, Uwe Seeler being accompanied off the pitch by a policeman after the game, looking as dejected as anyone might after those 120 minutes. In Germany, this picture has been voted Photo of the Century. 

What drama.



The slightly older gentleman to the right energetically rolling up the sleeves of his track suit is the German Coach Helmut Schoen by the way. I wonder what he was thinking at that moment - "Like it or not, we have to face the music now"? 

What drama.

But then, there's the other side of the story, as experienced and many times relived and retold by the winners on the day - the eleven players representing England: Gordon Banks, George Cohen, Ray Wilson, Nobby Stiles, Jack Charlton, Bobby Moore (team captain, shown here being presented with the trophy by Her Majesty), Roger Hunt, Alan Ball, Bobby Charlton, Geoff Hurst, Martin Peters. 

I can still repeat them by heart, timeless heroes not just of English football fans that they were. 

This feat of memory half a century later is made easier by the fact that in those days there were no substitutions. If you got hurt, you were simply redeployed to limping heroically up and down the left wing to make up the numbers. And the other players in the squad thus condemned to lingering on the bench didn't even get a winner's medal. Those were truly terribly tough times indeed, alliteration or not. 

But their unique, historic triumph of 30 July 1966 sadly did not bring these eleven young men a lot of happiness as they soldiered on through their lives - in fact, some observers have spoken of a curse resting on their shoulders. Theirs is a story of tragic premature deaths, debilitating illnesses, and serious financial problems - only nine survive; one has lost his eyes sight, four suffer from Alzheimer; and only three of them have not been forced at one point or another to sell their medals. 

Geoff Hurst, hero on the day and still the only player ever to have scored three goals in a World Cup Final (well, only two really), recently failed in his attempt to auction off the shirt he wore during the game as no bidder was willing to cough up the admittedly steep asking price of £ 500,000.

By contrast, Uwe Seeler, aged 79, enjoys reasonably good health and modest wealth.

So, what will the superstitious make of all this? That humans who achieve greatness will have to pay dearly for their triumphs further down the road as the gods residing on Mount Olympos are a jealous, vengeful, and vindictive lot who enjoy punishing mortals' hubris by cutting them down to size? Assuming they bought into this ancient Greek concept of tragedy, with hindsight, do you think any of these eleven footballers had ever been tempted to undo their feat and to return - not sell - their winners' medals in order to avoid subsequent retribution? I doubt it. And good for them!

But even if they had, can we swim against the currents of your lives? 

Anyone seen River of No Return? It’s a wonderful Western movie, released in 1954, directed by Otto Preminger, and starring Robert Mitchum and none less than Marilyn Monroe.

The marketing tag line ran: “MARILYN MONROE... Sultry, flaming, exciting as never before – on a desperate river journey... experiencing the violence and madness of desperate men!” 

Wow. What drama. 

And Ms Monroe sings in it as well.

She was actually a very good singer, as evidenced in many other of her films. For example:

“Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friends”, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953)

“That Old Black Magic”, Bus Stop (1956)

“I Wanna Be Loved By You”, Some Like It Hot (1959)

Marilyn Monroe also was anything but The Dumb Blonde she sometimes had to play. My Top Three quotes attributed to her, in ascending order:

“I sleep in the nude but I pull the sheets up.”

“The happiest time of my life is now.”

“Fear is stupid. So are regrets.”

By the way, she never even won an Oscar. But then, nor did Charles Chaplin or Greta Garbo. Whereas our friend Leonardo DiCaprio, thanks to The Revenant (2015) now finally has, and we can all move on. 

That said, I thought Quentin Tarantino’s The Hateful Eight (2015) was more than a match. It follows impressively the classical three unities for drama: unity of action, unity of time, and unity of place. And in this, it is very reminiscent not just of Ancient Greek theatre, but also of the good old Agatha Christie murder mysteries.

I once went to see The Mousetrap in London, which opened in the West End in 1952, making it the longest-ever non-stop playing production in theatre history if I’m not mistaken. At the very end, after the final curtain call, the lead actor stepped forward and addressed the audience directly: “Now that we’re partners in crime, please don’t tell your friends whodunit.” Charming. And its continued success proves that, contrary to general wisdom, people are capable of keeping a secret… 

I know nothing. My lips are sealed. Discretion is my middle name.

But be warned: In The Hateful Eight, There Will Be Blood. Another brilliant film for which Daniel Day-Lewis in 2008 won one of his three Oscars for Best Performance by an Actor in a Leading Role. The other two? My Left Foot (1990) and of course Lincoln (2013).

Having covered Mr Day-Lewis and his all-time award-winning film history record here before, let’s not get distracted and return to Ms Monroe instead.

Marilyn Monroe was born Norma Jeane Mortenson in 1926. She never knew her father's identity. As a consequence of her mother's mental health issues, she grew up in foster families. She was sexually abused as a child. She became one of the biggest film stars and was revered as the most erotic woman on the planet for about ten years. She was married three times. She fought with addiction, depression, and anxiety. Her last completed film was the drama, The Misfits (1961). Then, she tragically died at the age of only 36 from an overdose of barbiturates at her home in Los Angeles on 5 August 1962. Although the death was ruled a probable suicide, several conspiracy theories have been proposed over the years and decades since. This past 1 June, she would have been 90. Unimaginable really.

People will always remember Marilyn Monroe as the timeless, sexy yet frail movie goddess that she was and one of the true icons of American popular culture, immortalised by her films and Andy Warhol.

And all the more so because her life was not just marked by stardom but also by suffering, not least at the hands of the men she got involved with, ranging from a first husband she married at sixteen; to spouses Numbers Two and Three, baseball legend Joe DiMaggio (I am among those that believe she should have stayed with him, and all would have been good) and playwright Arthur Miller (sadly, while a couple, they went by "The Mind and The Body"); and to clandestine relationships with some other more or less nice guys, including a President and his brother, the Attorney General.

One of her last public appearances was at New York's Madison Square Garden where on 19 May 1962, ten days before the actual date, President John F. Kennedy's 45th birthday celebration was held. The event was a fundraising gala for the Democratic Party, and more than 15,000 people attended, including numerous celebrities. 

Ms Monroe's dress on the night was made of a sheer, flesh-coloured marquisette fabric, with 2,500 shimmering rhinestones sewn into it. It was so tight-fitting she had difficulties putting it on, and she wore nothing underneath. It was designed by Jean Louis and originally cost US$ 12,000; it sold at an auction in 1999 for US$ 1.26 million. But then, it had only been worn once.

English-born actor Peter Lawford, brother-in-law to JFK, was at the microphones to introduce the actress. In his short remarks, he played on her reputation for not being punctual by gesturing towards the spotlit empty stage a couple of times, with her not appearing. When she finally did step out, he simply said "the late Marilyn Monroe". 

Less than three months on, she was dead. And John F. Kennedy himself was to have only one more birthday - 11.22.63.

She peeled off her white ermine fur coat, revealing the dress and her figure. 

What drama.

Monroe sang the traditional "Happy Birthday to You" lyrics in a sensuous, sexy, seductive voice, intimating intimacy, with "Mr President" inserted for Kennedy's name. The First Lady was not in attendance on the night.

Here is the link - don't miss it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=piVKYMb4nzM

I told you she could sing. And this is how she will always be remembered. Just like Geoff Hurst wearing that red England shirt on 30 July 1966 he was desperate enough to want to sell so many years later. It had also been worn only once.

Speaking of Ladies, First and others, and their talents, musical and others - how about Michelle Obama: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ln3wAdRAim4 

Which finally brings me, more or less elegantly, to the subject matter I have avoided going into for a long time - the U.S. Presidential election campaign. Because with the nominations officially done now, that's what it has become, and we will have almost hundred days of it still to look forward to. Or not.

Somebody far more insightful than I has recently stated we live in the age of "Post-Truth Politics". In other words, when it comes to exchanging arguments to sway the electorate, literally anything goes. Let's just throw it out, the more outrageous the better, and if it "sticks", we'll milk it. If not, there is surely another blatant non-truth we can come up with tomorrow.

If this makes me sound bitter - well, I am. In the words of my old hero, American Vice President Joe Biden, it's all "Malarkey"! According to the Thesaurus, it means "silliness", but then also, in alphabetical order, "balderdash, drivel, foolishness, hogwash, nonsense". And I would claim Biden was being rather generous and civil in not just calling it plain old "Bullshit".

Declaration of interest: While I fully understand and respect Joe Biden's decision not to run for the White House himself, having witnessed the recent nomination conventions in Cleveland and Philadelphia, boy do I wish he could have been swayed.

And of course, he was referring to the output from the candidate of the Republicans while putting on a brave face and trying hard to "sell" his own Party's.

So here we finally are now, stuck with the less-than-inspiring spectacle of Hillary "Worst Judgment" Clinton (69, in the blue corner) slugging it out with Donald "Not A Clue" Trump (70, in the red corner). And worse still, with the depressing prospect of then having to endure one of them in the White House for at least four full years from January 2017.

Unless of course, which nobody will wish on them or their nation or, for that matter, the rest of the world, they have to leave office prematurely and are replaced by their Vice President - current "Running Mates" Senator Tim Kaine (Democrat, Virginia) or Governor Mike Pence (Republican, Indiana). 

What little we, or indeed the American nation now asked to vote them into office, that proverbial "one heartbeat away" from power, know about them is quickly told.

In the red, Republican corner, Mike Pence (57): Governor of Indiana since 2013, before that Member of the House of Representatives from 2001, so a very experienced politician. A supporter of the Tea Party Movement and initially an advocate for Ted Cruz in the Primaries, he is considered by some as the most conservative Vice-Presidential candidate in the last 40 years. As such, probably the safest possible bet for Trump who has no governing experience whatsoever, is rejected by large sections of his own party, and is hated by too many all round.

In the blue, Democratic corner, Tim Kaine (58): United States Senator for Virginia since 2013, before that Governor of Virginia and Mayor of Richmond. He is only one of twenty people in American history to have governing experience at all three levels of government. A decent man by all accounts, he was one of three candidates for running with Barack Obama in 2008 (and I predictably maintain that choosing Joe Biden was the best decision). On NBC's Meet the Press program, Kaine characterised himself like this: "I am boring. But boring is the fastest-growing demographic in this country." For Clinton, he is meant to "deliver Virginia and the Hispanic vote".

Actually, maybe either of them may not be such a bad alternative scenario... Which says it all really.

In one of his inspirational speeches during the Second World War, Winston Churchill on 27 April 1941 closed an address he gave over the BBC with a reference to the incumbent President of the United States and by quoting the final line of the poem, "Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth" by English author Arthur Hugh Clough (1819 - 1861):

"But westward, look / The land is bright!"

The man residing in the White House then was Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

How the times have changed.

It never ceases to baffle me how the mighty United States of America, with all their resources, among their 320-odd million population could not come up with two better candidates. And it's not just me. Check this out: 

http://giphy.com/gifs/trump-donald-hillary-26BRxjQXtmOyU8rcI

This is what the current British Prime Minister, ruling over a nation that has of its own volition pulled down the shutters on their immediate eastward-facing vista, and her merry band of Brexit Cabinet members will see across the Big Pond in future while continuing to phantasise about the "special relationship". But then, in compensation they have now set their sights much farther east than Europe, defining The People's Republic of China - that shining beacon of Liberty, Civil Rights, Freedom of the Press, and the Rule of Law - as "our new best partner". 

"Brussels" by comparison - good riddance!

What drama.

For the first time in American Presidential elections history I think, the key to winning for both of the candidates is less to motivate the undecided or supporters of the other party to vote for them, but to convince a sufficient number of their own supposed followers that they are not as unelectable as the other side makes them out to be. 

What a choice. 

But also, what drama.

Which may be even exceeded if the unthinkable, but not altogether implausible were to happen on either or even both sides of the North Atlantic - disregarding for one moment the soon-to-be leveraged football prowess of Iceland and the Faroe Islands by "Big Sam" Allardyce of course. 

Imagine a double whammy of the Republican Party grandees still coming up with a plot to convince "The Donald" that he has taken this far enough now and should somehow bow out, graciously (less likely) or not; and of whatever conspiratorial, cross-party coalition of the wily, willing, and well-meaning in Westminster finding a way to put brave breaks on Brexit, preventing it from actually happening after all.

Unimaginable? A mere figment of my feverish fantasy? Not really I don't think... You? 

But then, I had money on Germany winning the Euro 2016. 

For now, having enjoyed the alliterations game yet again, and thank you for bearing with me until the hopefully entertaining end, I am looking ahead, not necessarily forward to two weeks or so of even more drama about to unfold in Rio de Janeiro.

I hope it will be in the athletic department and not as the Games deteriorate into the "Pharmalympics" Robert Shrimsley has humorously conjured up in the Financial Times. I love his satirical weekly columns!

In celebration of the Ancient Greeks who, after all, first came up with the idea all the way back in the 8th century BC - do visit Olympia on the Peloponnese - and in friendship and solidarity with our lovely Greek neighbours, the Antipodes, as I lounge in my armchair, feet up, I will make a point of regaling myself with Greek salad, Moussaka, and Retsina. Or rather, Mythos beer - I have the branded t-shirt to wear.