Not that many were predicting beforehand that this would be the case. In the weeks immediately before it all began, the vibrations on the radio, in the newspapers and on that 140-character shredder of reputation Twitter, insisted that we should prepare ourselves for national humiliation.
The way it was being told, everything that could go wrong with our hosting of the Games was certain to go wrong. We had outsourced the security operation to cack-handed, greedy incompetents, we had surrendered our civil liberties to the commercial interests of the sponsors, and allowed London?s road network to be thrown into jeopardy in order to accommodate the Ruritanian requirements of officials. Travel agents reported a surge of late bookings as people sought to flee from the anticipated omnishambles.
As a strategy, however, the escape plan began to unravel from the first beat of the opening ceremony. The moment the lights came up on a stadium transformed into a bucolic paradise, complete with livestock, it became clear that those who had deserted our shores were in the wrong place. Ninety minutes of dazzling theatre, dance, film and music later, the telephone lines must have been thrumming with refuseniks trying to negotiate passage home.
An innovative, witty mash-up of our cultural history, the opening ceremony spun the head, brought a tear to the eye and made everyone lucky enough to witness it smile hard and long. Danny Boyle?s brief had been to reintroduce Britain and its capital to the world. How successfully he achieved that, presenting his homeland as a modern, friendly and, above all, humorous place. It quickly became clear that London was now the centre of the known universe, the place on which the world's eyes were trained.
The ceremony was a reminder to the world ? and perhaps, more to the point, to ourselves ? that this country has long held within it a wellspring of joy. It was the most enticing welcome to these isles of wonder.
For the Mexican journalist sitting next to me in the stadium, the high point of that evening was the Queen?s cameo in a James Bond pastiche. He could not believe it really was her, could not believe the Queen was hitching up her skirt to join in the party. And he was right to be astonished. At that moment, all suggestions of stiff formality were bundled out of the helicopter. What her appearance insisted was that the next fortnight, everyone was invited to participate in the fun; we really were all in it together.
And improbable as it may have seemed, from that vertiginous high spot, things just got better. Snapshots of our glorious capital ? of horses apparently leaping over Canary Wharf, of cyclists skirting a sun-dappled Buckingham Palace, of female athletes in micro bikinis playing volleyball on Horse Guards Parade ? spun round the globe. How wonderful it all looked. The facilities were brilliant, the transport smooth, everything just worked.
Even the assumption that corporate ticketing would preclude the ordinary citizen from observing the action at first hand proved unfounded. The opportunity to watch for free was everywhere seized. Tens of thousands filled Hyde Park to witness the Brownlee brothers dominate the triathlon. A million people lined the streets around Hampton Court to see Kilburn?s King of Cool, Bradley Wiggins, win the time trial.
There is no doubt victories such as these by local competitors added to the overall sense of well-being. Not even in the wilder reaches of Lord Coe?s imagination could such a happy confluence have been envisaged: jaw-dropping facilities, brilliant hosting, and world-beating achievement by the home team.
And what was so inspiring about Jessica Ennis, Mo Farah, Chris Hoy and the other British champions was that they delivered. There was no failure of nerve, no wilting under the weight of expectation, no hint of the traditional way of British sport of crumbling when faced with a crucial penalty in a shoot-out. For a fortnight, spot kicks were smashed unerringly into the top corner.
Thus it was that the Games became awash with an unstoppable benevolent momentum: everyone ? administrators, spectators, volunteers and athletes alike ? quickly recognised they were having the time of their lives. This was an intoxicating daily demonstration of our best side: civic-minded, helpful, properly patriotic, proud of our culture?s sterling qualities. As Mayor Boris Johnson put it, this was ?a nation at ease with itself?.
A year on, looking back at that month-long festival of good cheer, however, we are obliged to wonder what the lasting effect of those beguiling few weeks might be. The talk now is of legacy. Messrs Coe and Johnson insist that the Olympic Park ? currently being reconfigured for future public use ? will continue to draw the curious in their thousands. But questions are rightly being asked about future funding: how active those inspired by what they saw can become if their local swimming pool is closing or their PE teacher is being laid off.
Talk of participation targets and bricks and mortar, however, may be missing the fundamental point about what the Olympics gave us. Surely the most significant benefit of the Games is the alteration it brought in our wider sensibility. What the festivities proved to us is that we can do things not just well, but better than anyone else. We can take on the world at anything, from a firework display to a rugby Test match, from a transport network to a tennis grand slam, from the production of motor cars to the Tour de France ? and win.
We have discovered, moreover, that the best way to enjoy something is to embrace the effort, to immerse ourselves, to volunteer. A year on, this is what really counts: we now know we can be proud of our country and what it can achieve. And that is surely worth ?9 billion of anyone?s money.
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