Handling this glittering cascade of accolades, further loaded with the weight of national relief and pride, called for other British un-qualities. Matthew Pinsent, the rowing hero, and Sir Steven Redgrave, his former team mate, gave a synchronised display of waterworks: they cried openly. After a victory as close as the width of a rower’s blade, which gave Mr Pinsent his fourth gold medal in succession, the emotions on show were understandable and many of those watching at home yesterday morning will have shared them. For once it may not be stretching the truth too much to say there was not a dry eye in the house.
There will be those who lament the loss of the British stiff upper lip, the ability to treat triumph and disaster with the same apparent disdain. But if emotions are seen to be genuine, the person under the pitiless eye of a camera is enhanced rather than diminished. When Paul Gascoigne burst into tears in the 1990 World Cup finals, those who had deplored his loutishness found themselves touched. When Margaret Thatcher gave way to her emotions on leaving Downing Street, many felt that it showed a surprising vulnerability in the Iron Lady.
The surprise, perhaps, is that British politicians have not learnt the Bill Clinton trick of turning on the tears when it suits. Actors, of course, are good at it. Today in the Sunday Times magazine we carry pictures of thespians crying to order for the camera. So we should celebrate the genuine way that Mr Pinsent and his colleagues celebrated. Nothing better summed up the effort and will that went into his achievement than the manner in which it was marked. Real men may not eat quiche. But they do have a good cry.