Diary
Iain Sinclair: My Olympics, 30 August 2012
“... wrestles her sore-hoofed nag around Greenwich Park. I pass through at the moment when the immortal Bradley Wiggins, with his Dickensian name and stylish sideburns, is launching his time-trial through massed ranks of flag-wavers, and I have to take my place on the grass. Cynicism is, momentarily, suspended – in awe of the mechanical perfection, the yogic ... ”