I could take the story to my grave. Or not.
It was circa 2015. Brisbane Lord Mayor Graham Quirk had been in a meeting with the city’s marketing chiefs, including the head of Brisbane Marketing.
They’d thrown around the thought of Brisbane hosting an Olympics. Probably one of those meetings where people throw aspirational ideas onto a post-it note which they in turn stick onto a whiteboard.
They could write straight to the whiteboard, but that would be too hard. Post-it have different colours. So too do pens, but post-its don’t have lids.
One of those ideas required all five pens for the post-it because it depicted the rings of the globe’s biggest sporting get-together.
The marketing chiefs then made some strategic phone calls. One of those was to my good self.
The conversation went something like this:
MC (marketing chief): Wayne, we’re doing a straw poll. If we were to bid for the Olympics, is that something you’d support?
Me: Why not?
MC: Why not indeed. That’s all we need to know.
End of conversation. Then the mayors of the region got into a room where they again threw around ideas, this time determining how a regional bid might augur the greater good.
The whiteboard topic might have been something like this: What can we do with a lazy few billion?
Transport was a hot topic. Fast rail was at the heart of conversations, with dreams of connecting every regional city from Toowoomba to the Sunshine Coast to the Gold Coast by trains that travelled up to 300km/hr.
Twenty minutes to anywhere, they said. How good would that be for the economy?
They spoke to Olympic bid experts who said the IOC wanted to change direction. Too many cities were losing money after hosting the greatest show on earth, so they wanted to embrace bids from people who could at least break even.
They wanted cities with existing infrastructure. By that, they meant stadiums.
They wanted cities who would work together with nearby destinations to broaden the benefits. By that, they meant a regional bid.
The numbers so far were stacking up for the suited whiteboard brigade.
Another phone call.
MC: You know how I asked if you’d support an Olympic bid?
Me: Yes.
MC: Changed your mind?
Me: Why would I do that?
MC: Good.
End of conversation.
At this point, the Queen P is in the background saying the state government didn’t really want anything to do with an Olympics. Too much to lose. What if it failed?
So the mayors employed a few experts to map out the prospects, rustle up some numbers and lay down what they thought would be a feasible bid.
The numbers, they said, were in our favour. They were serious, and if the premier didn’t want to join the bandwagon, the cities would go it alone.
One problem. They needed infrastructure capital for all these roads, rail and other big shiny things they wanted to build.
After poring over the numbers, the Queen P said she’d help. On one condition. That she was the leader of the pack.
She wanted the glory for all the hard work done by the regional councils, including Logan, and would be the face of the campaign.
Remember the punching of the air when Brisbane was announced as the host.
The state government however, knows where its bread’s buttered. The Gabba would get a major upgrade, the Gold Coast – who neither didn’t want to know about the initial phase of the bid – would get all the events, along with a smattering to the Sunshine Coast, and fast rail would become a slower form of what would now be called “faster” rail.
Mayors sat with chins around their knees.
Never mind, Logan, you can give the Queen P some credit. She’s going to give you some money for a training venue of sorts. A place Olympic athletes can brush up on their skills the week before the real event in the more glamourous spots around the region.
No events. A training venue.
Good for us, we’re told, because we’ll have that venue forever and a day.
Hey Wanda, you got those new sneakers I bought?
