This weekend they came fast and thick: telephone calls, emails, text messages, each one inviting me to a private football soirée. And by football I mean the game of American football, derived from English sports traditions, whose finale, or what I believe is popularly known as 'The Superb Bowl', is scheduled for tomorrow evening.
Will I be attending? Most definitely not. You must be joking. I have tea to drink and six hours' worth of Downton Abbey DVDs to watch. My official excuse is that I am recovering from a particularly stubborn cold and need to rest, which happens to be true. I might go for a walk along the beach and watch the sunset.
In my line of work professional sports is a common topic of conversation, not only amongst colleagues but also clients. I fake it but can only go so far. I would much rather talk about the economy, books, politics, philosophy, music, and scientific topics. In other words, subjects fit for civilised adult human beings. But society on both sides of the Atlantic has been dumbed-down and infantalised. When St. Paul said put away childish things surely he was referring to the mindless consumer-drones of modern liberal democracies.
Professional sports is for mind-fucked proles of all socio-economic strata. It is an industry and its motives are purely economic, which in itself might not be wrong, but its effect on adult men and women is. It is a massive distraction, a time-waster, a money pit, a foolish spectacle preventing people from addressing the real issues festering in the next room.
Moreover, most of the participants on the pro-sports plantation bear no biological or cultural relation to me. They are badly-behaved nobodies, spoiled sub-hominids with too much money and too much freedom. There is no basis for connection or common identity. I am more likely to wear t-shirts bearing the slogan of my local grocery store or petrol station. As political entities such as the US and the UK continue to fracture and fall apart, succumbing to the multi-cult virus, perhaps the pro-sports industry will represent the only thing moronic mixed populations have in common and assume even greater importance as a result? A question to ponder, I think.
Indeed the demographic transformation of professional sports in the last few decades might help explain declining viewer numbers among certain groups in the US. In the UK professional football clubs such as Chelsea are increasingly composed of imported Africans and Arabs. In last year’s World Cup the French squad was heavily infested with non-French players, which probably contributed to its humiliating exit from the tournament. In sports as in politics and war: diversity is weakness, unity is strength.
Allow me to be candid for a moment. The occasionally intense nature of my articles is due not to wine and codeine, as is widely supposed, but to scarcely suppressed hot rage that I shape and compress into brief lines of prose as best as I can. In this regard I should tell you it angers me to no end to see grown men, whose ancestors conquered continents, trecked to the Poles, built machines, invented computers, and landed on the Moon, submit in this manner. And yet there they are, sitting in front of the television: hands held in prayer, voices raised in worship, assuming a posture of adoration, veneration, and total subjugation. Truly, we live in the era of the Last Man. It is for my benefit as well as theirs, you will understand, that I pretend tomorrow is just another preposterous illusion.