You know a horse is going to appear any moment. In fact you’ve been waiting for it, crouched under a tree in sunny Greenwich Park, for a few hours now. It seems almost inconceivable that it will actually show up. And then suddenly, it’s there: a 1,500 pound animal teetering on the brink of the ravine above you, dropping down the bank and galloping madly past with its rider crouched on its back. It’s a snorting, sweating magnificent blur. You’re sure it will trample you. And then it’s gone.
For some reason, the London 2012 beach volleyball tournament featured a gaggle of dancing girls (plus a few token guys) that took to the court between sets. At one point, three male dancers in nothing but acid-wash jean shorts ran onto the sand and started thrusting rhythmically. This failed to tantalize the ladies in the audience. It didn’t do much for the men either, who broke out in howling boos. Only when the bodacious female dancers — wearing matching jean short shorts, white t-shirts and red suspenders — joined in were the hordes appeased. I felt as if I’d strayed into a 1980s-themed nightmare.