The Winter Olympics TV programme last night covered the ice
dancing. I dislike ice dancing (quite a lot.) The way I see it, ice dancers can’t
dance properly because they’re too busy keeping their feet on a slippery
surface. Neither can they skate freely because they’re too busy trying to dance
at the same time. The result, as I see it, is an example of the whole being
less than the sum of its parts, which is an unsatisfactory state of affairs.
Tonight’s programme featured the figure skating, which I
also dislike for broadly similar reasons. It got interesting, though, when the
man who looked vaguely East Asian fell over. ‘Oh dear,’ I thought. ‘I hope he’s
Chinese and not Japanese, because we don’t want any more blood and viscera
staining the snows of Sochi, not to mention the compassionate decapitation once
the poor chap has done his social duty by suffering sufficiently. It would give the
place a bad name – not to mention a bad smell – and then nobody would want to
stay there and there’d be nothing to watch over dinner by the fireside.’ I
waited with bated breath until the score was announced and the man’s name came
up on a board. Turned out he was from Kazakhstan, so I was none the
wiser.
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