Chap Olympiad 2010

The contestants await their fate..

The Chap Olympiad has come and gone, again and once more the Internet is awash with photographs; it is a very photogenic event. I am remarkably unphotogenic, I will always look like a double chinned housemistress enjoying a private joke.

Vivien of Holloway frock, vintage bolero jacket, hair by Betty.

But despite this I enjoy my one day of sanctuary, ensconced in a little green oasis of fecund Bloomsbury amongst hordes of other people that think (some) of modern life is rubbish. As you join the queue, or circumvent it (I’m a Magellan of queue circumnavigation) you are immediately struck by three things: the stylishness of the vast majority of the attendees, the friendliness and the familiar faces. There are people you only seem to see at the Chap Olympics. A familiar refrain is ‘where do they all come from?’ Well they come from all over the place. As do the photographers. Chap Olympians wonder who will win the Getty picture steeple chase every year….

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.

The Chap Olympiad has a number of things to recommend it, apart from the variety of potential experiences. One is that its resolute promoting of amateurism, eccentric sporting and events cocks an elegant snook at the revolting orgy of corporate arrogant dullardism that infuses all major sporting events. We don’t need their cocacolaMacanike extravaganzas in citizen murdering nations. Stuff ‘em.

Is it Bloomsbury or Casablanca.

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.

Fleur de Guerre and the ultimate winner of the event square off.

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.

Then the snippets of conversation are endlessly amusing. There are the dogs in neckties, men in bathing costumes plus stevedores, dandies and vintage poppets strewn across the acreage gossiping, making arch comments or indeed talking absolute rubbish: in an elegant inebriated way. Several hundred tickets were sold and people were drinking steadily all day (hurrah!) yet there was not a single fight (well apart from the competitors).

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’.

Of course all is not perfect. The cakes sold out. And not even the Chap Magazine can legislate against the presence of the odd annoying charmless ‘look at me’ bore. Whilst gentlemen attendees had almost all made an effort a few young ladies had decided that as they were young and pretty they would just turn up in festival style crap. Lads, if you invite them next year, be kind and treat ‘em to a tea dress they looked like Poundland plastic tulips in a sea of real daisies.

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.