My experience of the event varies, once I had to deal with a profoundly drunk bearded one who could only stand up when supported by a couple of burlesque dollies. Another saw a triumph in the gin martini relay, enhanced by a hat so large my unphotogenic face was largely hidden. Then there was a hot Saturday in Hampstead which basically involved sitting on a blanket knocking back cava and nibbling quails eggs until I was incapable of movement or indeed thought.
We want the cucumber discus, and jugs of pink cocktails and twirly taches. In the spirit of this, whilst the organisers lay on the props and some vague semblance of organisation (albeit of the Dad’s Army variety of organisation) those in attendance make the entertainment.
There is pleasure in observing the well dressed hordes. NOT in ‘costume’, something I wish the meedja could get their heads around but in their Sunday/Saturday any damned day of the week best.
As one virgin Olympian noted people were overwhelmingly friendly and genuinely interesting. It would not be going too far to say it is a joyful occasion. The Chap Olympiad crowd burst into song, impromptu umbrella duels and flamboyant congas at the drop of a top hat.
The gathering of the tribes that takes place is also refreshing: steam punks, tweedy gents, tattooed rock chicks and Victorian flaneurs loll about in what the editor of the chap, Gustav Temple, might describe as a state of ‘chumradery’.
However the sight of decadent ruin at 9pm when those having to return to the outposts of Chapdom had departed was reassuring. Dancing continued on the stage. Bodies lolled around on the grass, wine and cocktails were being consumed. Even the debris was stylish….
Some of the photos on here are from taras curiak's flickr account.