When that old seducer, Jacques Rogge, announced London as the host city, he was putting the final touches to an elaborate foreplay, which was to culminate in a union between the International Olympic Committee, the city of London and the British government. Out of the union non-identical twins were conceived, genetically engineered using code provided by IOC regulations and British law. The twins were nurtured on the fruits of Britain’s labour and the riches of the IOC. The way the IOC, the greedy alpha male, and the British state, the cowering submissive bride, treated their two sons was quite disturbing to those who didn’t choose to turn a blind eye.
One of the twins, the Olympics Development Agency, was a public body. It was charged with the responsibility for designing and building the Olympic Park; controlling entry into and out of the park and controlling advertising and street trading licences in and around the Olympic venues. The IOC, alpha male, demanded the Olympic Development Agency use its mother’s savings to build the theatre that would host the games. In effect, the ODA was funded from taxes levied nationally and in London, and by proceeds from the National Lottery a fund originally intended for charitable work to the tune of just over £9 billion. Despite having done a good job neither the ODA, being a public body, and therefore despised, and the mother, seduced completely by the King Vulture, was to receive any direct financial reward in return.
All of that when to the father, the king vulture, the IOC, which retained ownership of the global sponsorship and broadcast rights to the Olympics, the sales of which generated a nice little earner. The othersecond twin, the favoured son, the London Organising Committee of the Olympic and Paralympic Games (LOCOG), a private limited company established to organise the Games. It was instructed to put on the show, and in return received funds from the International Olympic Committee (IOC), and was given the right to generate funds from selling sponsorship, ticket sales and merchandise. LOCOG was instructed not to provide a penny to his despised brother and ravaged mother, although hew was minded to give the father a 20% cut of any profit, with the taxes on any such profits to be paid for by LOCOG or his mother.
The mother, the British state, obsequious, subservient, deluded both herself and her extended family that the arrangement was for the good of Britain. Normally such exploitation and abuse would lead to Social Services removing the kids from the parents, but Social Services were nowhere to be seen on this occasion. Instead late at night, somewhere in between City Hall and Westminster, the drunkard harmonizing of the mother, manifest in the prostrate figures of David Cameron and Boris Johnson, adorned in red lipstick, wrapped in floral dresses and old stockings, teed off by twin set and pearls, could be heard drifting through the night air. Slumped in each other’s arms by the banks of the Thames, violated, with thousand yard stares that ran parallel but never looked into the murky business that poured through London, their affected effeminate old Cockney whining, sounding something like two old fashioned church goers, who had badly lost their way on a Saturday night, could be heard, “He hit me, he hit me, he hit me and it felt like a kiss.”