I
scrammed out of London a few days before the Olympics began, but after getting
an earful on what the locals make of it. On the whole, the residents of that
great city would rather the honor of hosting the world's most disruptive
sporting event had gone to some joint that needs the publicity more – Alma Ata,
or Ouagadougou, or Oakland. In 21st century London, traffic moves at fewer
miles per hour than it did before the internal combustion engine was invented
without the added complication of fleets of Third World thug bureaucrats and
the permanent floating crap game of transnationalist freeloaders being dumped
on its medieval street plan. Nevertheless, having drawn the short straw of
hosting the Games, Londoners felt it a point of honor that the city be able to
demonstrate the ability to ferry minor globalist hangers-on from their favorite
whorehouse in Mayfair to the Olympic Village in the unfashionable East End in
time for the quarter-finals of the flatwater taekwondo.
The psychology of the traffic cop enters
into the opening ceremony, too. One becomes inordinately fearful that the giant
Middle Earth trash compactor will not arise on cue, or the dry ice machine will
fail to blow smoke up Voldemort's skirt, or one of the massed ranks of
top-hatted mutton-whiskered extras recreating the Industrial Revolution in
hip-hop will miss a stomp. And you're so grateful to have dodged these
calamities that it never occurs to you to wonder whether taking 40 minutes to
do the Industrial Revolution in interpretive dance was a good idea in the first
place. Britons seem unusually touchy on the subject, touchier than they've been
since the week of the Princess of Wales' death, when the prudent pedestrian on
the streets of Kensington avoided catching the eye of the natives, lest they
club one to a pulp for being insufficiently maudlin and lachrymose. A
Conservative Member of Parliament who made the mistake of tweeting his thoughts
without running them by the party's focus groups was disowned by his colleagues
and forced into groveling public recantation. It seems his now-disowned tweet
that the whole thing was a load of codswallop was an unfortunate typing error and
that what he'd actually meant to say was that the highlight of the evening,
"Government Health Care: The Musical," was far too riveting to be
confined to a mere two-and-a-half hours