A very sweary Olympics

Duck! I’m about to splash testosterone all over your screen.

Don’t worry too much: I’ve been splashing it around since I was 12 years old, often several times a day. It wipes off.

But here comes a big splash of testosterone all over your face: the Bugatti Veyron is one of the greatest achievements mankind has ever made. It’s a “Concorde moment”, one of those occasions that brings to mind Browning:

a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what’s a heaven for?

The Veyron is that heaven. It’s that sepulchral over-reach. Like Concorde, it’s something we didn’t need, but made anyway. Bugatti didn’t make a car that was as good as it needed to be. They didn’t make one which was slightly better than it needed to be. They made one miles better. To be exact, 14,163,479 miles better than it needs to be, which by coincidence is the average distance from Earth to Mars.

But Browning be damned: we’re not going to Mars. And we should be! It’s mankind’s next big leap, and looking back at the 1960s you can clearly see the massive benefit to the economy generated by the space programme. But where are the political giants today? Where are the men (or women) who will say “We will go to Mars this decade because it is almost insurmountable”? There are none. We’re led by midgets. In fact we’re not even led: our leaders, such as they are, don’t attempt to give us direction, they just listen to uneducated, disconnected mob mentality (that’s you and me, folks) and then shape their policies to appear as though they’re doing what we want them to.

Is this what you wanted? Look around. You asked for this, and now look. It’s a result of what we want, not what we need. We need to do something insurmountable. The history of man is the history of surmounting insurmountable hurdles, and it always benefits us.

But the first political question about Mars is this: how can you justify spending the estimated $100 billion it would cost to land a man there?

And my answer to that is: we do it all the time. Look at the Fucking Olympics (that’s their official title in my household). The Fucking Olympics is costing £14 billion, and that’s just the stuff that’s been admitted in public. It will cost more. Once you add the cost of policing, security, lost income from travel chaos, lost homes from scurrulous landlords and lost dignity from Boris Johnson, the total cost will probably be £20 billion.

Spent on, let’s face it, running about.

The cost of the next three Fucking Olympic Games would put a man on Mars. The Mars project would create 20 million jobs and cause a great leap forward in our technological (and spiritual) lives. It would draw the planet together in a profound way which anybody under the age of about 55 simply cannot grasp, because the last time anything remotely similar happened was 1969.

Whereas the Fucking Olympics is a school sports day with pretensions of greatness. The constituent parts happen week in, week out, and nobody gives a shit. Really: when did you last tune in to watch the archery? Or yachting? Or even “exciting” things like the 100 metres? All we’ve got for our £14-£20 billion is a way for “democratically” elected dictators to wank out a massive, pointless vanity project; and for approximately 200 people who run, jump and skip really well, to run, jump and skip really well in a shiny stadium.

Do you know who Neil Armstrong is? Yes.

Do you know who Andreas Thorkildsen is? No. And you never will. Even if you Google him right now, the information will vanish from your brain within 60 seconds, because it’s fucking useless, just like everything about the Fucking Olympics.

We’re currently on day 5 of a 70 day programme of “running around with a torch”, which is intended to make me feel excited. But it doesn’t, because I can replicate it perfectly by jogging to the shop carrying a candle. And all it’s promoting is yet more running about.

The Fucking Olympics is already fucking annoying me. So in future, here’s my plan:

  • All Fucking Olympics to be held in Greece. Why constantly build new stadiums at vast expense and for no conceivable purpose? Really? If you give a flying, frisbeeing fuck about the 4×400 women’s relay, pop over to Athens and watch it there. I’ll agree that the Olympics should be held outside of Greece when the Baseball World Series is held in Swaziland.
  • All Fucking Olympic athletes to be chosen at random. You know Mrs Winkelstien down the road? Yeah, she’s doing the pole-vault this year, dicky hip or not. Come on, you know that would be more fun to watch, and at least the Chinese wouldn’t always win.
  • No more spending on Fucking Olympics until it can be shown to benefit mankind. Even if it’s just with a new form of velcro (which is what most people assume is the only benefit of the space program, the fools)
  • And every news channel must stop banging on about the Fucking Olympics, because – shock – it’s NOT FUCKING NEWS! Today they stopped reporting about the collapse of the entire world’s economy to tell us that the World’s Gayest Firelighter had been carried from Ilfracombe to Woolacombe – and they even had reporters on the spot to find out if local children cared (they didn’t, they just liked being on telly). When we’re all living in a cave, scratching out a meagre existence by making soup from the bones of our fallen relatives, we can look back on this as the moment we should have spotted how fucked up we were.

So that’s It. It’s It with a capital I. I want to hear no more about “amateur athletes” who get paid a fortune to do nothing but sports; or the “Fucking Olympic ideal”, which now incorporates the world’s largest McDonalds; or the “honest nobility” of millionaire yachtsmen who got trained by private schools to “represent” Great Britain, a nation whose citizens they actually would piss on if we were on fire. Piss on, and laugh.

That’s literally It. I’m off to Mars until the whole Fucking Olympics has vanished up all 5 of its Fucking Rings.

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