Closing Ceremony Commentary

If the Olympics represent peace between nations, then the closing ceremony is probably best viewed as the resumption of hostilities. Britain proved this particularly last night by unleashing the Spice Girls on the world without prior warning. Such is the brutal international relations we have for 206 out of every 208 weeks, spoilt only by this two weeks of wishy-washyness devoted to sport.

Despite this unbridled declaration of war on the senses and on the world, some entertainment managed to make it through the battle. Brian May was immense, Eric Idle stole the show, and a nation held its breath as Boris managed to hold the flag dangerously close to a naked flame without setting either it or his hair on fire.

Besides the nadir of the Spice Girls' unleashed in all their horror, the lows were intermingled throughout, although Jessie J emerged triumphant by an overwhelming margin. Having started the evening wearing a bizarre flesh coloured leotard, she re-emerged with now one only one leg clad to join Queen on stage. Showing all the competence for singing she had for trouser selection, she proceeded to desecrate We Will Rock You, a song that is almost impossible to sing badly.

George Michael added interest to an otherwise bland routine by announcing that London was at the centre of the universe - prompting me to yell at the television that this was not only exaggerated, but also cosmologically inaccurate. Someone also scheduled The Who to finish with My Generation, somehow missing the irony that this being belted out by the 68 year old Daltrey might not quite marry up with the inspire a generation theme. Daltrey, Townshend et all have been subject to this for so long that they're on an entirely different plane of meta-irony about this.

The dignitaries' speeches gave great hope for more unintended humour; duly delivered as Seb Coe forgot to leave an applause point after the word volunteers, and was confused as the rapturous crowd overwhelmed the rest of his mundane sentence. He then stood politely aside, hands folded and waiting attentively like a well-trained butler as Jacques Rogge took over.

Rogge, a man straight out of central casting for Bond villains, introduced his henchmen and informed the assembled athletes and audience that he had planted a bomb in the stadium and that they would never find it - they must either meet his demands or die. He may have mumbled something else in reality - I was having too much fun completing his sentences with 'Mr Bond' to take any notice of what he actually said.

Rogge's fiendish plot foiled, the whole thing came to an awkward pause as the flame was extinguished and cleaners came in to tidy around any lingering guests, while any confusion on what the £9 billion budget had been spent on was removed as enough fireworks to adjust the earth's orbit were launched to celebrate that yes, finally, it was all over.

Roll on Rio 2016.