The Olympic Files: Day Three.

 

Macdonalds; wanting to call them "Burger Rings"

In its mythical origins, hardened men of Ancient Greece created varying one on one sporting competition; based around events such as Wrestling, Athletics, and Chariot Racing – to name a few. Spectators would flock from many distant towns and watch on in awe; as marked coins or Gold, Silver, and Bronze, were awarded to the best of the best in their specific field; they were warriors, heroes, and figures of aspiration. As these events – and the numbers watching grew in stature, politicians, capitalist wagon-jumpers, and all forms of the powerful, began seeking profitable margins within an event so widely popular. By 1896, the Olympic Games had been revived for the modern era, and very little had changed.

The question it makes me wonder, one-hundred-and-sixteen years later, and on this third day of the thirtieth summer games, is simple; if the people created it, and the powerful hijacked it… Whose Olympics is it anyway? 

Corporations: Each commercial investor has pumped 100 million dollars into the IOC, in order to spend two weeks forcing their product into the minds of the masses. They are handed contracts, sponsorship deals, armies of grandstand tickets, and are unavoidable if you wish to enjoy the event. Two factors are of note; one – taxpayers fund the games. Two –  much like no one remembers anyone whose contribution to humanity, was nothing more than making money, no one remembers any Olympic sponsor. Without their stupid hyperbole campaigns, and hocking of worthless crap (Macdonalds, seriously?), the games would continue to run smoothly… perhaps even allowing more taxpayers a chance to view the events they paid to create.

Media:  Besides negativity, insidious misinformation, and - now with social networking, a consistent chattering annoyance we could do without, they provide some value, in their global coverage of the games - though most is tied in commercially. However, as much as this service is useful,  much like with corporations, the games would continue without the myriad of cameras and scrutiny. Media are a necessary evil of coverage, not a requisite to keep the games running; in honesty, I think the Olympics is a time where no one listens to them anyway.

The IOC: If the International Olympic Committee disbanded, another group would come along, slowly evolve, and take their place. They are easily replaceable organisers – only in control in their own minds. Important to regulate the aspirations of host states and events, yet when the games begin, are hardly even needed there.

Governments: The Olympic Games are used to further political agendas. The left claim unity and the beauty of a liberated spirit, embracing culture, colour, and competition. The right lay an idea of monopolising capital growth and developing industry, as well as the nature of true, ruthless ambition to become number one. And the rest focus on scoring backslapping tickets for all their rich mates; it's amazing how many rich men of power are pathetic chumps, looking to catch pervy thrills off the Beach Volleyball. Nonetheless, their plans are very quickly forgotten, and for every soul who associates a Berlin 1936 with Adolf Hitler, there are around a hundred thousand, who remember Jesse Owens.

The Athletes: Being an Olympian is the pinnacle of any sporting achievement. When I remember previous games, I think of Carl Lewis, Steven Redgrave, Usain Bolt, Ian Thorpe, Sally Gunnell, Chris Hoy… the list is endless. Gold medallists are, deservedly so, national and international heroes. And it is still considered a measure of true success, to become an Olympic champion. The games started because of them, and will continue because of them as-well.

The Fans: Without the athletes, there is no completion. Without the fans, there is no one there to watch it, and enjoy it. It is spectators who made the initial ideas keep rolling, and it is the general public who truly embrace the Olympic Spirit. 

Corporations, politicians, and media, have tried time and again to override the heart of the games with their hidden, hollow agendas, yet always failed to do so. And in this statement, lies the answer. The Olympics were created by sportsmen, continued by the fans, and no matter what any media outlet of fast food chain tell you, determined by them too. When the money runs dry, all the shallow, self-serving animals using the event for personal profit, will vanish from the mist of its burning flame. The fans, athletes, and the Gold, Silver, and Bronze, will still be standing as strong as it did, on the fateful early days of Ancient Greece. Whose Olympics is it anyway? It is yours, It is mine, it is for all humanity; price, power, and position, are completely irreverent.

Until the next time…

Lee.

The Olympic Files: Day Two.

We sit upon a concrete Trafalgar Square slab - below the pouring mid-afternoon rain; which has arrived with due force upon the London Olympics, a day later than expected. The temperature is a chilly 20 Degree Celsius, and the weather should be dampening the spirits of a city, currently under the intense spotlight of a global microscope. Only - if anything, the effect is exactly the opposite.

This is my first time in the heart of London since the games began. Within the space of life under these umbrella thoughts - and the ensuing six hours or so spent in the capital, the sheer size of the 30^th Olympiad begins to dawn on me; sightseeing Panamanian athletes, umbrellas donning the national flags of France, Uruguay, Brazil, and Columbia. A Canadian film crew searching for fellow North Americans. And a Portuguese media group interviewing an athlete on an open top London bus; just a small microcosm of all which surrounds us.

The Olympics games have not taken over London; they have decimated everything in its path - like a hurricane, left dormant for seven years to ponder its course of destruction, finally let loose. Humanity smell of the games – even us, as we stroll along the side of the slowly brightening Mall; where the women’s road cycling ended half an hour previous. Fans of all nations abound from every angle; to the point it is hard to decipher who is competing, who is related to the competitors, and who is just here for the sake of being here. Meters beside us, the beach volleyball takes place at Horse Guards Parade. The size and organisational levels of the makeshift stadium built to house it, are a sight to behold; Beach volleyball, it seems, does have more credence, than the idea of a few pervy thrills on the side. 

We navigate side roads towards Buckingham Palace, and I wonder if the Queen and her Corgis are looking forward to watching Team GB’s football squad, later this evening. Before we hit Hyde Park, we pass more volunteers, athletes from Germany, Turkey, and Cuba, official buses of Spain, Ukraine and China, and a go-kart containing three Team GB potential medallists. In the park we head for the official BT Zone; where a mixture of free live music, cooked food, and the cleanest temporary toilet facilities I have ever urinated in in my life, surround four large screen televisions – covering the games in high definition, wall to wall style. It has a Glastonbury feel to it, and we stay to watch an American singer/songwriter as she acoustically invigorates us all with her incredible voice and soulful energy. We stay for a couple of swimming finals; French, American, and Swedish fans cheer in the crowd. The energy here is powerful, and it would take a heart of sheer stone to ignore the magic which currently flows through the air of not just this venue, but the city in general.

There is a rich vibrancy in London right now; the like of which I have honestly never felt before. All the destructive elements of the Olympics – advertising, ticket touting, the media’s bizarre obsession with any minimal negative story they can lay their greasy hands on, still reside. But the sheer gravity and infectious nature of positive energy the summer games bring are, at least in my view, overwhelming to a point, where you simply do not care about these things; it is that strong. 

The police are efficient yet easy going. The volunteers happy to aid all along their way; while engaging In a little friendly banter. And the usual aggressive undertones of England seem to have taken a two week holiday. Of course, a cynic may argue this new liberal, relaxed nature is purely so we can give the once in a lifetime tourists an impression of London as a happy, hospitable place – and maybe to a degree, this is true. But personally, I don’t care. Whether a false impression, or a genuine form of open expression, London will likely never experience an event like this again. So I suggest to anyone in or around the first city of civilization, to take this opportunity while you can, because as soon as post closing ceremony Monday dawns upon us, the smiles of London will vanish as fast as a mystery woman in red representing Team India. And no, even though I would love to suggest otherwise, the Paralympics will barely even register.

Next stop, the Olympic Village. Until the next time…

Lee.

The Olympic Files: Day One.

I love the Olympic Games. Ever since the little fat eleven-year-old me watched my distant relative Sally race to a place in history, as one those rarest of breeds; a British Gold medallist, the event has stayed etched deep in my heart. Back in 1992, viewing the Barcelona Games through a 10 inch black and white television, in a literal airing cupboard I called my bedroom, and watching the world unify in sporting competition, it began to teach me the beauty of both the limitless boundaries of the physical body, and how much I needed a bigger bedroom.

Two decades on, and the summer games arrive once more; in living colour, a few short miles from my new, much larger bedroom, ready to show the world how the Brits manage to host an event of this magnitude in the 21st century. And going on the incredible showcase of Danny Boyle’s genius; otherwise known as the Opening Ceremony, there is plenty to look forward to – even if little more than seeking a pervy thrill or two off the Beach Volleyball. So, after the first full day of competition, here are a few thoughts on the 30th Olympiad; live from my home-town of jolly old London, England. 

Team Great Britain: In typical xenophobic nature, the media and advertising have once again proudly proclaimed how us British are going to dominate the entire games, win 94 medals, top the final table, win shock Golds in ludicrous events we are generally shit at; such as Handball and Beach Volleyball – simply because it is upon our land. It seems everyone believes this – except for the other competing 204 nations, that is. Day one is over, and our current tally of medals is a grand total of… zero. Oh dear. I am hoping the ridiculous weight of expectation placed upon our athletes does not hinder them, but if you are going to succeed in the elements, seriously, respect the other nations aspirations. On the flip side, the BBC’s overload of excuses crack me up with each new delusion; my favourite today, blaming the Chinese fans over exuberance, for causing the British to win fuck all in the pools - I guess ability is an irrelevant factor.

Female Basketball: women over 6 feet tall are scary. Women over 6 feet tall who play professional Basketball, are even scarier. I guess beyond wrestler, shelf stacker for a shop too tight to buy ladders, or replacement may pole, career options are limited for 6 feet 8 inch females. Today, Australia hammered the British team; excuses fly through the mouths of the commentators - I am certain one of them claimed the Aussies were wearing flubber.

Weightlifting: 48 Kilo sized women, lifting the equivalent of a whole me carrying a microwave from 1990 high above their heads, is seriously impressive. Most are oriental – which is a good advert for staunch conservatism and rice, I suppose. This event must carry the highest ratio of injuries, and shortest ratio of ectomorphs.

Swimming: As usual, Britain loses, America wins, Sharron Davies presents the action and mentions her Silver of 1980, and the Queen turns up. Swimmers have strange yet impressive physiques, and remind me of lean human sharks. I am looking forward to a streaker diving in the pool – hopefully, after discovering her new found sense of humour, maybe Her Majesty.

Road Cycling: British Gold hopeful Mark Cavendish rides for almost six hours, forgets to close in on the chasing pack, finishes miles behind the medallists, then blames the Australian team for doing so. If whinging was an Olympic event, Britain would win the Gold, Silver, and Bronze. On another note, I never realised how beautifully green England is; though I spend a lot of time in Harrow, so why would I.

Shooting: So there is no Sumo Wrestling, Cricket, Karate, or Pie Throwing here in the Olympics – but there is shooting. Where men and women who resemble power rangers, fire guns into squares with numbered circles inside them. Nope, I just don’t get it. Also, if there is Archery, where is Darts? Beyond the distance in direction, what’s the difference? Who wouldn't want to see three Brits standing proud upon a Darting medal podium; beer bellies and ugly shirts blazed around global images, under the banner of three Union Jacks.

Football: Team GB Women – hard working, technical, organised, and dedicated. Team GB Men – a glorified charity side. Why is Football here? It just doesn't feel right. Maybe for the women, but these guys have their own events of Olympic magnitude within their sports anyway; much like Tennis, or Golf (due to begin in 2016). They should make it five-a-side.

Female Volleyball: Women come to London after years of honing their craft, in order to become champions of the world. Men come to London after an hour on the tube, in order to oogle their arses. They do say sport is somewhat primal.

So this is day one. I will continue to blog about the Olympics, and hope to attend an event or two. This is all somewhat tongue in cheek; In the end, every athlete here is an exceptional human being - and making the Olympic Games in any capacity, wins my instant respect. As far as matters at home are concerned, I believe us Brits are doing a wonderful job in hosting - now just need to catch up when it comes to winning; we are currently behind Kazakhstan, for Sir Roger Bannisters sake! Until the next time...
 

Lee.

How To Become A Professional Rapper.

Rap music. Thirty years of rhythmic talking, still stuck in the same starting blocks from where it once begun. Derivative, one-dimensional, and riddled in laughable clichés of aggression - it is commonly spoken with a silent C. Yet In 2012, it stands as the only genuine working class escape beside Football. So in respect of the 21st century's copy-and-paste generation; lost in a technology which now processes and stores their information for them - we used to use our brain, kids. I present my first "how to become" guide of many; in this case, how to become… a Professional Rap Artist.

The first step is an absolute must; buy an army of CD’s. Scrap that. Download a collection of albums from thepiratebay. Scan thoroughly and select a former hit single still lingering deep in the human subconscious, this will be the hardest part of the task - finding the right song to pretend is your own. This "sample" is the portion of your hit everyone remembers, and is best sung by an attractive woman  – image is everything in rap music. Then, visit the library of Commodore 64 and NES games, and find a short, repetitive beat. Record said beat on a loop, and repeat over and over – this is your verse. Now the sounds are complete, all you need are words – AKA lyrics. 

Rappers love anger, and venting through their gold teeth the agonies of surviving, striving, and finally thriving from social poverty. This comes in the form of exposing their mansions, expensive jewellery, and the hoards of beautiful women who jiggle their naked rear-ends around them (Rappers are generally arse-men - for some obscure reason). The notion of being from the streets was once a genuine truth of rappers, but has morphed into a selling point used by middle-class kids, in order to have them appear ‘rough’; providing a phoney background beyond private school, and annual holidays to the Costa Del Sol. If a bona-fide street dweller, keep going. If not, just let a record producer make it up; N-dubz, Lil Wayne, and The Game, are successful examples of this. Keeping the lyrics high in redundancy and loaded with promotion of primal pleasures, should carry you forward. The chorus does all the work - so you could just shout "washing me boring trousers" over and over the verse, and no one would remember anyway.

If you wish to be brave, an idea would be to ply your trade as a rapper who is no longer angry, and wanting to fight everyone all the time. Instead you have matured emotionally with thought and experience, to realize how your associates are hollow, rage is regressive, and shooting people is not the only solution to solving an argument. Rapping about personal growth and evolution, could make things better; but there is a risk the kids need a good year or so of reconditioning to accept it, so is give or take. You can be homosexual if you like, but it is best to hide it; rappers are very insecure about their sexual orientation – hence the aggressive bravado and constant desecration of the female gender. 

Skin colour is irrelevant. However, the word ni***r should never be used, unless you are of dark skin; in which case, feel free to use it as often as you wish - reminding everyone of a time in history nobody is proud of, as opposed to rising above it. Bitches, fuckers, cunts, abortion, serial killing, pussy, clitoris, murder, rape, and child abuse can be said by anyone, at any-time. Talent is optional. Singing lessons unnecessary. Don't worry about creating works of longevity, loaded with wit and wisdom to last generations. This has already been achieved by rappers such as Tupac Shakur and Immortal Technique, and cannot be improved upon - unless you take the dodgy emotional maturity route. For every one of these, there are about 50,000 Tiny Tempahs - stick to this path; it is safer, and a lot less work mentally.

By now you should be ready to partake in a career in rap. All you need to do is follow these steps to a tee, hope a music producer discovers you, then sit back as the dollar shaped kudos roll right in. So if you fancy as a career as a carbon copy of someone else's attempt at a carbon copy… follow these rules. If you want to break every barrier and carve your own reality in this industry… ignore everything I just said, buy a guitar or a set of decks, learn to make them sing like a humming bird, and the rest is eventually, revisionist history...

Rap music never began with a silent C - the music industry just put it there for them.

 

Lee. 

Le Coffre Au Trésor (The Treasure Chest)

She was an item of immense, untouchable beauty. Encrusted in dark African mahogany from the deepest plains of the Javanese rainforest, and carved by American Indian natives to resemble the history of a Mayan civilization, Le Coffre Au Trésor  (The Treasure Chest), stood pride and place, deep in the centre of a Parisian museum. The most beautiful creature in France, Europe, and quite possibly, the entire planet.

For years, many had mused over the chests immense beauty. They proclaimed her aesthetic powers were so dominant that – much like how the sailors of Odysseus drowned trying to swim to lands containing the irresistible echoes of the sirens song, many had taken their lives upon sight; trapped in the knowledge the box could never be theirs, and theirs alone. 

And yet, her deepest mystery was the beauty contained within. Because she was stunning on the outside, they assumed, she could only be even more so, once opened. Many men came and tried – time and time again, yet failed. They had become so afraid of the overwhelming nature of her outer shell, they were too scared its contents would destroy them – believing her internal energies more powerful than any man who ever lived. Some imagined her contents contained riches beyond their wildest dreams; such as gold bullion or pure white diamonds. Others pictured the Turin Shroud, the secret diaries of Napoleon Bonaparte, or even – for those truly enamoured by her enigmatic charm… a scripture, written by God himself. The beauty on the outside had drawn them in. There was however, one person, who knew all the answers to the questions - sought by the obsessed, the interested, and the insecure. 

Her name was Rienne; a retired Parisian con-artist. On returning to France thirty years previous, she found herself in need of financial stability, so, taking from a series of urban myths, created a story around a bland, useless old box found behind the back of a bric-a-brac store. She carved a few images upon it, used a tree from her local woods to add for effect, and painted its outer layer in black liqueur; then constructed an old lock, learned from her days dating a Houdini-esque magician. She built the legend on Chinese whispers, and developed its value on intrigue. The chest was a fake – a copy of a thousand other attempted copies of something which never even existed. The only difference was - in constructing her artistic fraud, she had done her homework. 

All the while, a similar, open chest of drawers sat around the corner in the same museum. She was a genuine piece of oak, just as beautiful, and once served great purpose housing the Crown Jewels of many wealthy, historical monorchies. Her internal casing now contained thousands of coins; thrown inside, to aid the wishes of visitors across the world. Her value was enormous, but, as she showed both her strengths and her frailties, was not held in such illusionary high regard, as the attention grabbing phoney next door.

The key to beauty of the Le Coffre Au Trésor  was simple; there was no beauty, only the perception of it. There was also absolutely nothing inside; the reason why, she always remained locked shut. Sometimes, a beautiful chest of drawers is full of riches, beyond our wildest dreams. Other times, it is just an empty hollow shell, hiding the fact it isn't even real, by pretending to be so real, it is in fact untouchable...

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The Seven Of Clubs.

Football fans are loyal to their clubs – not the players who play for them. Of course, this formula works both ways - the players could not care less for those who follow them. It is as if a club is the Mother you love without condition, and each constantly revolving player, the step-father you were forced to accept as a portion of your life; but beyond how well they treated your Mother, never really cared for in the slightest.

Should the Mother ever abandon your side; the action is never met with a burning instant hatred, combined with malicious insults which serve no purpose. There is initial rage, but it quickly turns to disappointment, rejection, and a slow burning hurt which – while it eventually passes, shall always leave a scar upon the heart. You simply wonder why, for the bond is too strong to wish them any ill. The Mother is irreplaceable; and you either accept it, and move on, or refuse to, and go backwards. Another club is NEVER an option – no matter how glamorous they appear to be.

If the step-father leaves, however, it is a different story altogether. All you feel is desire to tell him to fuck off someplace else, and how you never liked him anyway. You may even wish him a shitty future – quietly hoping his next marriage is a disaster of Sid and Nancy proportions. Yet, beyond how his decision damages your family unit, you really couldn’t give two shits about him as a human being; all you see is a man hurting your Mother – his reasons mean little to you, and cannot override the blinded emotion you feel within. You never loved him; only when he was nice to you, and made you feel good – a natural act of immaturity, but something fans of all clubs, never seem to evolve beyond.

Football fans often talk about how much they love the players who play for their team. But, I wonder to myself, isn’t this love quite often a little one-sided? When any employee (like it or not, they are essentially, employees) goes through a purple patch - banging in performances week after week, everyone loves him; everything he touches is considered gold, as he fulfils the vicarious nature of those who adorn the shirts with his name upon. And yet, when he enters rough waters and consistency dries up, those same fans bemoan the manager to make a quick sale, chant expletives at every bad pass or tackle he makes, and vent about his ridiculously high salary; even though it was perfectly fine when he was winning, and so were the club. With any form of true love, when they suffer, you go into an overdrive of compassion and help to get them back to normal again. With shallow, empty, selfish love, you just want them to get better - so you don't have to feel so bad.

Footballers are poorly educated individuals, burdened by youth to carry the maturity to make decisions based on rationale, and pleasing the many. We often forget this fact when - in any other walk of life, a male in his twenties leaving a job for more money or possible success, is deemed quite reasonable. Footballers are young adult males, placed upon a pedestal by the media, the fans, agents, and societal perception. In essence, they are men asked to be step-fathers, who are too young and foolish to understand the responsibility such a role entails. Then again, they never choose to marry anybody’s Mother, just take a job with a club which thought he could make them a better acquisition; the Mother's marriage to the step-father, in itself, has a whole life of its own.

I am sure there are those who suggest the step-father should carry on regardless, no matter how tough the road gets. And in most cases, he probably should; he made the vow, and this deserves to be respected. However, non-reciprocated love is doomed to fail. And if it was true love, the fans would not turn as quickly as they do; only feel a sense of sadness, and wish them well in their future endeavours. In my view, footballers play for themselves, as much as football fans support a team for themselves. I support England. Not because I want John Terry to win a World Cup, but because I would love to one day belong to a nation, which has actually succeeded at a major football tournament. England in essence, is my Mother, the players, a group of step-fathers, unable to live up to the expectation forced upon them. The only difference is, I know they - like all of us, have to do the best for themselves, and those who love them with true conviction.

They say footballers do not truly love the fans who pay to watch them play every week. Of course, this formula works both ways…

Lee.