You guys! You know I love to share my amusing sport stories with you on a day-to-day basis via this very website. But I’d like to take that further. Now, NOW, I’d like to share with you part of the first short story from my teeny tiny book, ‘A Little Book of Sport Stories’.
It contains 13 short stories from my crazy sport life, including, what it was like to be a gymnastics stuntwoman in a feature film, my first stab at stand-up comedy and my favourite sporting moment EVER – taking part in the London 2012 opening ceremony, which is detailed in the chapter below.
The story begins with my first audition, that’s right, first audition, implying I made a second audition. And with the chapter title telling you I actually made it… hmmmmm, maybe I haven’t quite got the hang of this ‘leaving reader’s in suspense business’. Never mind, onwards. Hope you enjoy.
1
That time I was in the London 2012 opening ceremony
Should you ever find yourself heading to your first audition may I suggest not washing your trainers the night before and leaving them out to dry? They don’t dry so quick.
One Sunday morning in November 2011, eight months before the start of the London 2012 Olympic Games, I find myself squelching along the odious back streets of east London. I’m heading to an audition that will hopefully result in me taking part in one of the ceremonies that will bookend the Olympic and Paralympic Games.
Since July 2005, when London had won the right to stage the iconic global sporting event, I’d subscribed to any and every email to do with my hometown Games. When an email pings through calling for volunteers to audition for ceremony parts, I’m on it like a rash.
Cursing the loss of my recently dispatched Fame-inspired leg warmers in a declutter-your-life-inspired frenzy, I dress in tracky bums, artfully distressed Atlanta 1996 Olympics motifed T-shirt and the aforementioned damp trainers.
First, when there’s nothing…
The auditions of nigh on 10,000 people are set to take place at 3 Mills Studios, ‘London’s largest film and television production studios’, and a mere five miles from where I live.
The capital offers its very best in convoluted ways to get to my nearby destination. Ongoing Tube works? Tick. Car park facilities at the venue unavailable to auditionees? Tick. Fourteen different buses to get there? Tick.
So, on this drizzly grey morning, my boyfriend Jason drops me off as near as he can to the venue, ready for my 9am start. I still have to make my way through a graffiti-daubed tunnel, past a rotting mattress and through a gas leak haze, but then voilà, I’m there.
Sizing up
Clutching my passport, I join a line that snakes around a warehouse-style building and get chatting to those around me. A middle-aged artist nervous and flighty as a bird: “Am I wearing the right shoes? The wrong shoes? What do you think? I’m going to change them. No, I’ll keep these on. Can you hold these, please?”
I bond with a woman even more petite than my 5ft-2ins and we fill the waiting time discussing potential costumes. Perhaps we’ll be a mushroom or a flower we ponder, our lack of performance experience clear in our primary school drama-inspired musings.
Once inside and through security photos are taken for our passes ‘in case we get through’. Even at this early stage we’re also measured for costumes.
I’m intrigued by my measurement of seven inches for my hands and amused by one figure in the next numbers.
“32ins.”
Yep, knew that.
“24ins.”
Get me with my little waist.
“38ins.”
What? My butt is 38 inches. Are you kidding me? I won’t need those butt implant thingies, then.
Fan fare
Once inside, the guy who has had the masochistic ‘pleasure’ of organising the ceremonies for the past four Olympic Games addresses us. Trying to get a handle on the sort of volunteers he has in front of him he asks various questions as we excitedly gather around him.
Have any of us gone to any previous Olympics, he asks, and if so, what memories do we have? Usually one to spout my sport superfan credentials at any opportunity I find myself tongue-tied. I can only think of being robbed on the train on the way to the stadium at the Athens Olympics, which seems a tad negative, so I keep silent in case a cross is marked against my name.
One fella has flown in from Philadelphia for the audition, trumping everyone with his enthusiasm. The director of operations points out the American’s thin, well-worn T-shirt. “Yes, it’s from the 1996 Atlanta Olympics,” the man explains proudly. “I was a volunteer there, too.”
I cross my arms over my own Atlanta 1996 motifed top, as I clearly can’t compete with this man’s devotion. My trendily distressed top was bought the previous week from Next.
Marching to a different drum
The next three hours can only be described as a ‘drill’. We walk, march and jog along lines taped to the floor, school-gym stylee. Music pumps out beats and clipboard-laden staff mingle among us, scratching down notes after peering at the number pinned to our clothes.
We’re separated into big groups, small groups, directed to one side of the area, to the back wall, nothing complicated, just following instructions. I’m a former gymnast so very much used to being coached and I do everything exactly as asked. Except one thing.
At one point we’re told to stay in line, to follow the markings on the floor but “do your own thing”. I act on this with gusto, dancing up a storm to the music, but within this melee I don’t hear the next instruction, something that has consequences in what happens at the next audition. That’s right, I said next audition, I make it through the first hurdle.
Amazon Reader Reviews for A Little Book of Sport Stories by Jo Gunston
“Self-deprecating, witty and fascinating insight into the life of a sports journalist and former professional gymnast. Jo recalls stories from her life as a stunt double in a movie to blagging her way into performing at the London Olympics opening ceremony (through her poetry prowess!). Thoroughly enjoyable, frank and honest read.”
Nina Postans
