Firestarter

When I heard that the Olympic Torch Relay was making a brief sojourn through the streets of Bourne I have to say I was surprised. This part of the country is largely ignored by the rest of the world. No-one comes to Lincolnshire for anything much in particular because, well, there’s not an awful lot here. When friends come to visit we usually take them to Stamford, which looks quite pretty and has some fine pubs, and Lincoln, which has a rare hill and a Cathedral, and two (yes, count ‘em, two) branches of Primark.

At a push there’s Skegness but a lot of my friends are from the South Coast so taking them to Skegness is like taking them to Bournemouth in 1979. It has a nostalgic look and feel but it also has the atmosphere of a place where something is likely to kick off, probably a riot between the local mods and rockers. Mind you, I did once buy a very fetching hat from Skeg, so it’s not all bad.

So, I have to say I was impressed that Bourne, one of the many quiet backwaters of this sprawling county was, for one fleeting hour or so, going to be caught up in the circus that is the London Olympics.

The present Mrs Hayward wasn’t impressed. As a long standing resident of this fine town she doesn’t see the point of going to watch some locals run through the streets carrying a flaming torch. According to her, this is something you can see in Bourne on most days, usually when word gets about that there’s a stranger in town.

Mind you, she doesn’t really see the point of the Olympics full stop so this was never going to grab her attention.

Having the Olympic Torch traversing the land has however provoked discussion amongst friends and I’ve learnt many things. Prior to the Grecian pyrotechnics arriving on these fair shores I never realised that it wasn’t a continuous relay on foot. I had imagined brave runners hot-footing it around the highways and byways day and night come rain or shine.

This doesn’t happen of course, the flame gets transferred from place to place by some sort of vehicle, a flame-mobile perhaps, until it gets to the next destination where some random celebrities and a few worthy (and some unworthy) locals jog through the town whilst holding it aloft.

One of the worthy locals running with it today is a personal trainer at my local gym. I didn’t know he was doing it until I saw him jog round the corner, wearing a gleaming white tracksuit and waving at the crowds like he was channelling the spirit of the late Jimmy Savile.

The other thing I had been unaware of was that there were so many Olympic torches. There are thousands of the things. I’d assumed there was just the one, and maybe a couple of spares in case some cack-handed fool drops it, that was passed on from person to person. I still think that should be the case. Yes, it’s nice for the people to own their torch but what would you do with it? It’s too big for the mantelpiece and far too elaborate to be lighting your barbecue with. There’s no need to have one, just a badge and a t-shirt would do as a memory of the day, surely?

The final thing I’ve learnt is that the whole torch relay thing originated at the Berlin Olympics in 1936, which was organised by the Nazi party. So, this relentless procession is something probably dreamt up by Adolf Hitler. I did wonder why ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ was running through my mind earlier. So with that and the Volkswagen Beetle, it proves that not all of Hitler’s ideas were bad. This however doesn’t really make up for the ones that were.

So, just before 9am I wandered not two minutes from my door and watched the whole circus make its way down the road, with loads of whooping and cheering from the permanently jolly organisers, determined to bring a bit of Olympics razzmatazz to a little Lincolnshire market town.

I’m glad I didn’t go into the centre of Bourne to see it, that’s where the crowds would have been and I’ll see the photos of that little extravaganza in the local paper. I savoured the curious juxtaposition of the whole thing bursting through normal streets near my house in an explosion of colour and noise, past the Auction House, the Bus Depot, and the recently demolished petrol station.

Next time I go for a run I can now say that I am running down the same road where the Olympic flame once burned brightly. Maybe next time I go for a run, probably tomorrow, I’ll take some matches and a rolled up newspaper and try to re-live the whole thing.

As a sort of coda to all this, at the end of the procession came a couple of BRM Formula One cars from the 60s and 70s, which were made in Bourne. That was the part that really made me smile, these motorised beasts unleashed on the streets of their home town, proudly revving their engines in celebration. Now that’s a proper sport. Perhaps it’s time for the Bourne Grand Prix.

I must get on to Bernie…….