I’ve never been a fan of the opening ceremony although, perversely I subscribe to the process each time I open my emails. It’s a ritual, a habit if you will: For me, it is but a strong coffee using beans cultivated on the thighs of virgins (or Kenco at a push) and a cold bottle of water as I peruse the junk that has come in overnight promising me a million Nigerian dollars if I click on the link, or a slow and painful death if I don’t.

My ritual however pales into significance with the showboating of an event opening, in particular, the recent Olympic opener which looks like a kindergarten crew planned it less than ably assisted by some revolutionary activists.

Dispensing with the stadium was one thing, but hiring a flotilla of boats of assorted sizes to chug down the putrid river Seine in the lashing rain was another, as the faux grins and the onset of contracting a chill on the eve of their big moment didn’t fool many.

It was barely watchable on the Beeb with the commentary, as they spat out factoids such as ‘the highest point in the entire Maldives is five metres high’ as we watched sportspeople, of whom we had no clue, waving flags manically as they milked their 15 minutes, and who could blame them.

To get to the Olympics is one thing, as many struggle financially to compete in sports that are, to be blunt, minor (hence a third of the UK competitors being privately educated) but to follow a dream is no bad thing with the pay off of an Olympic medal and a possible gold postbox in your hometown being the pinnacle of many careers.

But then, as the flotilla meandered through the Seine sewage, it was as if someone had spiked the organisers' drinks with some industrial strength LSD. We were suddenly, inextricably, greeted with a transexual fashion show on a makeshift catwalk on a bridge as men with wigs and high heels left little to the imagination as they paraded around a few feet in front of some poor French kids who no doubt now require trauma counselling.

One guy, dressed as a poor man's Richard O’ Brien in the Rocky Horror Picture Show ‘accidentally’ let one of his boys pop out of the barracks as the world looked on, aghast, in an Alan Partridge-esque style and wondered if this is what the Greeks had in mind when they devised the original Olympic concept all those generations ago.

Now this is not a homophobia trope (none of us should equate transsexuality with homosexuality) but a question as to why? This was clearly the wrong vehicle to have an overweight fat man spray-painted blue as a Smurf or Iggle Piggle, it's hard to tell which, as they then depicted the last supper with the role of Jesus Christ being played, seemingly, by the bearded lady from the Greatest Showman.

It left me open jawed, as it did countless others around the world, as we asked what does this have to do with sport? Or the Olympics? It wasn’t inclusive or inspirational, but gob-smackingly pretentious and seedy and, well, I turned it over as I did not want my 12-year-old daughter to witness such depravity in what should have been a celebration and festival of sport.

It's such a shame: The French arguably put on the greatest annual sporting festival with the Tour de France, but to follow it up with this dross now means they are fighting on a losing wicket to evoke any interest as we still laud the likes of Seb Coe and Daley Thompson but feel little to no affinity to the current Olympic athletes who, requiring exposure, were upstaged by an obese, bearded, scantily-clad man naked bar a single coat of blue Dulux.

No, I will continue with my email opening ritual, and I suggest the French take a leaf out of my book: By keeping it simple. Just by courtesy of bandying words such as ‘diversity’ about with wanton abandon, does not make it so, as they force oversexualised visions on the masses. It is not what this or any opening ceremony should be like, and I for one, sadly, boycotted most of this charade because of it…

  • Brett Ellis is a teacher