Today, I saw the Olympic Torch.  It was long and slender. A dull golden brushed steel hue, perforated finely with neat rows of small holes that defined either the aesthetics or function – perhaps both with equal measure. 
It did not look like a mast that would be held aloft in a tiresome trundle across continent and country in the hands of a capable few; bestowed with the honour via local appeals for nominated suitable local heroes who have served their communities by building schools or rescuing cats or perhaps just serving chips. Loads of chips.
The truth is the torch looked less legendary phallic beacon and distinctly more Star Trek prop cupboard. An atomic battle axe that would  vaporise an enemy in an instant.  To be fair the mechanism within the galvanised structure would probably merit a place in the engine room of the USS Enterprise.  An eternal flame that sustains itself during stormy periods much like an ex-girlfriend who would convince and cajole an ongoing relationship despite reoccurring outbursts that escalated violently before she accepted the fact she had quite clearly become mentally unhinged. None of this my fault I might add.
I’m unclear as to the exact history of carrying the stick of fire.  I presume it reflects endurance of both man, games and tradition.  I’m sure the unofficial biography of the torch is peppered with jovial, hair raising accounts of the times when the flame nearly or more likely  did (in numerous occasions) go out – extinguished by the elements or mechanism failure.  When I begin to consider the torch’s forthcoming journey across the British Isles, I have visions of an exasperated runner glugging from a bottle of Lucozade at a roadside somewhere in Harrow while a well meaning group of brand emblazoned hoodies try to spark the defunct flame back to life with an assortment of disposable and novelty lighters.  It’s just as well that the torch will wind its way down Britannic shores in a segmented relay route passed through a procession of 8000 done good personnel who will streak through the streets of communities in lycra and tracksuit.   One imagines a gaggle of spit-happy kids running behind the poor carrier trying to light their cigarettes as he hinders traffic in a scheme earmarked for change as soon as the economy picks up from where it left off and ultimately catches up with council ambitions.
Licks of paint & fresh varnish will veneer the torches trail through the shadowy suburbs  - no doubt carefully planned to give hope to the chip-shop towns whose residents will flock to the flames luminance as it bobs up and down their local high street and onto the next town forever captured by a barricade of camera phones and local news lenses.  Onwards to the final stadium destination through wind, hale, shine and rain; lots of rain – to the ultimately concluding roar of applause as it lights the Olympic barbeque.  Honour will turn to curse as weather and endurance turn the torch into torcher.
But then, this is perhaps more apt; the torch is a symbol of endurance and struggle.  The athletes have endured. Countless hours of training, honing and perfecting to step up to the podium, bow to a medal and desperately try to recall the words to the national anthem.  And we the viewing audience will also endure too as we readily champion any sole who prevents USA taking gold (again).  And should Team GB take gold, commentators will be quick to proclaim a sudden rush in school-age interest in said won sport.  Britain expects.  It is after all competing on home turf, in accustomed climates.  The odds will stack precariously; ready to fall at the crack of a starter pistol.  The torch then, brings with it the burning destiny of athletes, decked resplendent in United Jack.  In turn, the athletes offer anodyne to a nation marred and disillusioned.
I think I’m right that the torch begins its trail in Athens, a short sprint to the laptop would confirm this via Google.  It will have come a long way and so will the populated pockets of suburban wasteland that have been ironed out of existence and built upon to create cathedrals of victorious dreams.  An athlete’s village carved into the Stratford planes; bright, smart, shiny – ready to be sniffed with tedious repetition by bomb seeking German Shepherds (the dog variety of course.)
The new venue will witness greatness as medals are gained in multinational dramas and seeing the inevitable world records broken once again by a thousandth of a second which will serve to illustrate how Man (and of course wo-Man) continue to evolve along with their sponsored sportswear – ever improving on perfection. 
Of course, and with equal inevitably, the Olympic village will gain a village idiot to be paraded and shamed in the clamp of the stocks of the world’s media as they fail a doping test.   Nothing enhanced but for a country’s shame and embarrassment.
New stadia will endure beyond the final game and ritual closing ceremony to become tourist stops on open topped buses until the next games take the shining mantle of the flame from Athens in four years.   They will stand guard over the next generation of athletes – providing them with state owned, state of the art facilities to facilitate physical talents and brilliance currently being fostered in the school yards and swimming pools of working middle class youths; practice and dedication already on target to achieve maybe gold or silver (probably bronze) along with a disembowelled social life.  Clammy French kissing already swapped for early morning starts and training after school.
And perhaps this is the State’s legacy to the working-middle class.  A centre for physical excellence to nurture future public relations delights.  Success with sport easily measured by the masses home and abroad.  And perhaps a hollow thought for those blessed with more academic potential who will now find themselves shut out of the educational gymnasiums such as Oxford & Cambridge as the government introduce ever exorbitant tuition fees which filter with a cruel curtness the wealthy from the chav. 
For the lower class intelligentsia who couldn’t hurdle a yard, their days are all but dimly lit by the ever glowing golden torch of Athens. 
Today, I saw the Olympic torch.