Usain In The Brain

If the population of the world has mutually decided to go insane, it really would have been nice of them to at least send me a memo about it, rather than letting me find out bit by bit. As it is, I've had a bread-trail of gibbering nonsense to pick my way through today. First, reports that no British beers will be available to Olympic spectators, only foreign lagers (after all, why would we want to champion our own culture when we can cheerfully recline in front of the steamroller of globalised mediocrity?) Second, the news that food outlets in Olympic venues are prohibited from selling portions of chips because it will interfere with McDonalds sales (apparently, making the population morbidly obese for profit is entirely Ronald's domain, and he's not above going Pennywise on you if you disobey him).

But when I look back in years to come and ponder on the final straw that finally sent me to a padded room - where I will happily sit eating geraniums and calling myself "Lord Jellypants" - it will more than likely be the advent of the knitted Usain Bolt doll. It's not a wind-up. People are out there stitching beaverishly (or weaverishly?) away, creating little woollen Bolts. And does it stop there? How about knitted stadiums for him to run in? A knitted London for the stadiums to occupy? A knitted Britain for London to squeeze skeins of tax from?

At this point, I feel that all I can do is quote from one of the last bastions of sense in my life, The Simpsons:

"Has the whole world gone completely mad?"
"No; just your screwy country."