The one where I went to the Opening Ceremony
Ten days ago I went to the Olympic Park in Stratford and watched the Opening Ceremony of the London 2012 Olympic games. I know, right?
To get the big tickets to the Games, you had to apply for them in various rounds. I applied in every round, for a lot. I even bid for football. And that's apparently nuts. I also tried trampolining, gymnastics, beach volleyball (only because I could get the bus), and diving (because I think Tom Daley is One Direction's missing link). Nada.
But there was one more round. Only open to us losers and... I finally scored.
You'll want to know how much they cost me - okay I admit it - they were £150 per ticket...but it was the Olympics, the kids' new shoes could wait.
I was so excited they wrote about me in the local paper.
Yes, I was already giddy.
And what of the show? Well, before the sheep were even out of the gate, I had met two drummers on their way to make-up, four Germans (who shared their cheese with me, danke), an Iraqi man and an Italian woman who bought the tickets back when they were a couple, and, now they weren't. Awkward.
And the show, oh sweet Danny boy, the film maker who speeds up time, and creates a moment of beauty from shit, actual shit...literally over and again (Slumdog Millionaire, Trainspotting, 127 Hours...).
We glimpsed our ancient green and pleasant land, thrust through with entrepreneurial drive, hills scarred with collieries, heads full of tunes, hearts aching for a kiss. And music thumping around the arena as our heads were spinning, trying to keep up with it all.
It was a night to remember forever, and a moment in London's history, my city, that will always, always be a brilliant shining mirror of the eccentric, glad, dangerous and tender sides to our lovely, lovely Isles.
God Save the (parachuting) Queen after all.