Absolutely not. In the annual tourist rush of July and August, London is like a cranky father compelled to host a party for his teenage daughter — awkward, uncomfortable and simmering with barely concealed fury at the ghastly, noisy interlopers who insist on having a good time. It is reasonable to expect that all these hostile instincts will only be amplified by a larger-than-usual influx of people who can’t pronounce “Leicester Square” properly. So there’s that. Also: Londoners are not impressed by anything, at all, ever. Everything has already happened here — including the Olympics, twice, in 1908 and 1948. Sometimes, the weary stoicism of Londoners is a boon. But it is an outlook instantly affronted by any suggestion that any future happening is going to be profitable, transformative or, worst of all, pleasant.
