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Yesterday, I went to greet the Olympic torch as it arrived at Brighton’s cricket ground. Note to self: do not wear skinny jeans in raging precipitation while peddling a sit up and beg; chafing will ensue. I’d taken a detour to drop an old, ravaged bra into the bra bank (someone in Africa is itching to get their brown baps into my balconnette, I’m sure) on the Level which meant, by the time I reached Hove, my legs were sodden and the water was running down into my shoes to boot, so to speak.  Anyway, the queue outside the gate for this momentous occasion was a bit piddly, probably owing to said precipitation. In fact, the men selling whistles and wristbands and other cheap tat almost outnumbered the ‘crowd’ who mostly consisted of young families and gangs of surly boys waddling like penguins in their lunge gusset jeans. Everyone being wet and shivery, we weren’t in the mood for buying anything, especially chilled carbonated drinks; one girl dressed in a large plastic bag with false eyelashes tried to flog us bottles of pop (‘anyone want anyfink to drink?’ she whined, a wet fag stuck to her bottom lip. We didn’t. But then, the rain stopped and the gates opened and in we piled, grabbing the free muesli bar and tambourine en route before making a dash for the stage. There then followed two hours of what I’m going to call brand engagement: a fizzy drink, a bank, and a mobile phone company took it in turns to seduce us with an oil slick of motivational nonsense involving a gaggle of fit birds and blokes dressed in corporate colours doing streetdance, acrobatics and  lots of smiling. We were invited to shake our tambourines and ribbons and ‘yo, make some noise BrighTONNNN’. I desisted but screamed when Sally Gunnell came on. Oh yeah, and the torch, when it arrived from behind the burger van, was a bit of an anti-climax. Ribbons were limp and the tambourines had cracked under pressure, physical and mental.