That awkward moment when a woman who has won two gold medals (the universally accepted zenith of athletic achievement) admits on national television that she still feels worthless because the fact that she is not conventionally attractive is pointed out to her on a daily basis.
Well done, Western Society. Well done. *slow handclap*
Listening to Victoria Pendleton trying to explain her reasons for self-harming on the radio this morning reminded me of a time when I too sought refuge in the slicing of my own flesh. Conversations with people since then, plus the perspective that the passing years lent, did not make the compulsion any clearer to me.
What I do know is that it was necessary, it was powerful and it frightened the shit out of people.
Penis not shown. But then, it doesn’t really need to be. Image: Lma/Bauer Griffin.
Being a cynic of some repute, I had a feeling that this brave new world of post-Olympic British optimism wouldn’t last. The feelings of togetherness and joy we experienced as a nation – borne from the realisation that we were capable of doing something on the global stage without making complete tits of ourselves – were only ever a veneer, an unexpected heat wave in our perpetual winter of self-loathing and narcissism. We were still there. Just waiting. Just breathing.
Little did we know that last Friday night, while we were still exploring the well-lit alleys and sunny streets of ‘optimistic’, events were afoot that would break that heatwave and douse us once again in the familiar chill of the endless bloody rain.
Royalty. Nudity. Naked Girls. Camera Phones. Drinking. It’s like a perfect storm of British scandal.
I promise I will stop posting cynical comments about the Olympics after this, but it would be a dereliction of duty not to post this video of Jeremy Hunt nearly braining a passer-by as he gets into the spirit of things.