The Nazi Games, that is. Or maybe, after reading this, they should be called the Commie Games.
I’m married to a former Moscow correspondent. He is incandescent at what he considers the Sovietisation of Britain. Most obvious, during these Olympics, are the Games Lanes: just as in Soviet Russia, the nomenklatura can roar down a specially-designated lane to their destination (be that the women’s volley ball finals or the five bedroomed house in Notting Hill); while ordinary people (or peasants) inch their way to and from work through traffic.
I wonder whether, when the games are over, they’ll keep these new Zil lanes for use by VIPs like government ministers and Members of Parliament and town councillors. It would fit in completely with their complete contempt for everybody.
Anyway, don’t tell me if they’ve started. I don’t want to know anything about them. And since I don’t have a TV set, and I no longer listen to radio, and don’t buy newspapers, I’m unlikely to find out.
I suppose that, the way I see them, they’re the flip side of modern eugenics/healthism. On the one hand, the healthists launch wars on everything they consider ‘unhealthy’ – smoking, drinking, ‘obesity’, sugar, fat, etc. But with the Games they are promoting everything they consider healthy and right: lots of slim, young, muscular men and women running round in circles and jumping over things.
It’s an utterly vacuous utopia. In fact it’s a dystopia. It’s one in which humans have been reduced to being dumb animals.
And this is probably exactly what they’re aiming at. The ‘athletes’ are really prototype slaves, that will be kept running on treadmills all day, and brought out every few weeks and given a medal to keep them happy.
The eugenicist/healthists aren’t really in the least bit interested in ‘health’, of course. They want to create a race of toiling slaves, and thereby replicate Greece or Rome. Complete with Zil lanes for the ruling classes.
Actually, I tell a lie about never buying newspapers. I bought one a couple of days back. The Times. I bought it because I wanted something to spread on the floor when I re-pot my tobacco plants. But since I’d bought the darn thing, I thought I may as well leaf through it.
It was even worse than I imagined it would be. There was lots of stuff about the upcoming games (which I wasn’t interested in, obviously). And not much else.
It reminded me of how it used to be, when the Times had small ads covering its front page, and the real meat was buried deep inside. The famous Letters’ page, for one. And columns by brilliant writers like Bernard Levin. I still remember one column of his in which he described how the empty head of one of the government ministers (I forget who) might best be boiled up with onions and carrots and potatoes, and served as a soup or consommé. But (and this was the final, damning barb), even then it would probably lack any nutrient content.
Stuff like that was heady, intoxicating reading. The modern publication is just an empty rag. Which is exactly what it’s going to be used as.