Ah, the Olympics are finally over; free of the pedantic pontifications of midget Bob Costas, we've finished our slavish adoration of a fascist totalitarian state. Having buffed up its image and whisked away its dissidents, China and Bejing put on its happy face, let us ogle hunky jocks who'd never give us the time of day anywhere, and boosted our jingoistic nationalist pride... until the jocks are discovered to have used banned substances.
Until then, hit the showers, and have some athletic sex, since you know your country's jocks won't probably be able to get any nookie until they're out of Bejing.
Correction: It seems that according to this article, the straight jocks, at least, have regularly hooked up at each recent Olympics faster than meth queens on Manhunt!
This sex fest was not limited to Barcelona: the same thing happened in Sydney in 2000, my second Olympics as an athlete, and is happening right here in Beijing, where this time I'm a commentator. I spoke to an Aussie table tennis player this week to check out the village vibe and he launched into the breathless patter common to any Olympic debutant: “It is unbelievable in there; everyone is totally crazy once they are out of their competitions. God knows what it is going to be like this weekend. It is like a world within a world.” A British runner (anonymous again: athletes are not supposed to talk to journalists unaccompanied by a PR type, least of all about sex) said: “The swimmers finished earlier in the week and it was like there was an eruption.”
