A Top Gear Experience simulator lies all but abandoned in the nearby shopping precinct. In the park, tumbleweed rolls through. The once-imposing Olympic stadium now diminished in both size and character to a soulless shell. The never-much-loved Orbit that was hailed as Europe’s tallest sculpture already looks out of time and out of date. So very 2012. A twisted red car-wreck of the vanities doomed, like the Skylon, to end up as scrap metal. Few visitors look inclined to pay the £15 to reach its summit; at the souvenir counter, everything is half price.
There could be few more perfect symbols of a wasted legacy than the Olympic Park. A £9bn investment in a golden future that has left few sports better off and the nation’s kids just as unfit as they always were. Another broken Conservative promise. Only, political parties don’t do symbolism, postmodernism or irony; it’s hard enough for them to work out what their core message is without the complications of nuance. So Labour’s decision to hold its latest election extravaganza at the top of the Orbit can only have been for the view. Or possibly because it was both available, cheap and handy for everyone in the shadow cabinet; one or two of them looked as if they might have had a late night.
Harriet Harman was the perkiest of the lot and so got the ball rolling. “This is an important event,” she said, glancing at her hand-written notes. Unfortunately she had forgotten to make a note of why it was important. Time to wing it. “There are now 41 days to go until the election and we are today launching our election campaign.” Most people in the room had been under the impression the election campaign had started a while back, but Harman probably thought it best not to take anything for granted.
“Ed Miliband,” she continued, a hint of moisture in her eye. “Didn’t he do well? Spirit … determination … guts …” It rather looked as if she too had feared for her boy’s safety at Paxman’s hands during the previous night’s leaders’ debate and had been pleasantly surprised to find him not only alive but comparatively unbruised. An event that many had already written off as a wake was turning into a revivalist meeting. The entire shadow cabinet sharp-elbowed one another in their desire to be the first to give their leader a standing ovation.
Ed put a hand in the air and they duly sat down. This was the new, more confident Ed. “Friends,” he said, “the Tories have said this is as good as it gets. But we know that Britain can do better than this. The Tories have said this is as good as it gets. But we know that Britain can do better than this. The Tories have said this is as good as it gets. But we know that Britain can do better than this.” The shadow cabinet was not entirely sure if he was repeating this for emphasis or his speech-writer had copied and pasted the same sentences in three times. They clapped enthusiastically anyway. Better safe than sorry.
“It is the Conservatives who are the pessimists and it is we who are the optimists.” He sounded as if he meant it. Twenty four hours can be a long time in politics. Ed went on to accuse David Cameron of breaking “his solemn vow” on the NHS – all vows are now officially solemn – and reiterated his commitment to a mansion tax to pay for his own health policies. Tristram Hunt and Ed Balls both gulped a bit at being reminded of this, but took it manfully on the chin.
Before the event had started, the media had been warned that Ed would not be taking any questions. But that was then and this was now. This was new Ed. “Questions? Bring them on. I’ll take two. Actually, I’m going to go cra-zee and take three.” Hell, yeah!
