The Nolympics

This summer London was taken over by a queasy mix of oddly-shaped people who had ravaged their bodies to run a bit faster, or throw things a bit further, and an uncountable army of crocodile-like chancers, brand-managers and corporate cheerleaders. A blameless piece of the East End, at scarcely credible cost, was torn apart to allow this specialised crowd a free rein.

In a fearless piece of writing, Nicholas Lezard gives a blow-by-blow account of what we have all just gone through - the highs and lows, tragedies and triumphs, laughter and tears, and soul-destroying boredom. The Nolympics is a celebration of perhaps Britain's most attractive quality - its intermittent flicker of anarchism, derision and awkwardness. It is a book for anyone who refused to wade into the quagmire of modern sport and who feels that somewhere along the way the Spirit of the Games was smothered by the creepy individuals who squat at the heart of the British state.