The paint was near peeling off the walls of Whitehall's Banquet House. Given that a lot of that paint was applied by Peter Paul Rubens, it would have been one of the most expensive parties in history.
But Neil Finn rocked and the bow-tied and frocked-up guests rolled. There was a magnificent absence of self-restraint as Finn, accompanied by his youngest son, Elroy, belted his way through a platinum selection of his back catalogue.
It would be tempting to say the great and the good (and other tag-alongs invited by the New Zealand Olympic Committee) were on the verge of losing their heads, but given that the Banquet House, and Rubens' magnificent ceiling, were among the last things King Charles I saw before he, quite literally, lost his, it would come across as a cheap joke. We're above that here.
The shindig gave the sense that the Olympics had stopped becoming a concept and were actually started. That impression was helped by the naming of middle-distance runner Nick Willis as the flagbearer. It's easy to become cynical about these announcements and the way chef de mission Dave Currie puffs himself up to his full height to deliver them, but Willis restored the faith.
The committed Christian was clearly humbled by the honour. His speech was magnanimous and humorous. Heck, the guy gave the impression he had never been so proud in his life (at one point he said it meant more to him than standing on the podium in Beijing) and if it means that much to him, well it means a bit more to me now, too.
