Why is it that the minute you get back to home sweet home, you inevitably encounter a news item so stunningly moronic that you have to check the date three times to make sure it’s not April fools day?
“Many of us have decided that its about time pole fitness is recognized as a competitive sport,” reads the petition to make Pole Dancing (my caps) an Olympic sport, “and what better way for recognition than to be part of the 2012 Olympics held in London!”
I’ve invented a new acronym for the occasion. NIMO. Not In My Olympics. (If I weren’t such a calm and upstanding citizen I might go a step further and acronym it NIMFO, but that would be wrong.)
Look. It’s not just that I’ve got jetlag and am feeling cranky. No matter what pathetic argument you dredge up about the highly-trained-athlete-quotient of half-naked writhing girls in high heels being no different from that of 15-year-old anorexic gymnasts in leotards, I ain’t buying it.
Even if one accepts (I don’t) that it’s only the five inch stilettos that separates ‘pole fitness’ from various other dubious gymnastic events (my favourite being Dancing Around With Ribbons On Sticks While Keeping Toes Pointed at All Times), that separation is more than enough. Name me another ‘sport’ that has to be performed in a g-string. Don’t even think about arguing. I’m in no mood.
I’ll accept Pole Dancing (go on, call it the ‘vertical bar’, call it Camilla Von Putsch for all I care) as an Olympic sport when Usain Bolt goes out for the 100 meter Interpretive Strip Tease.
And that is SO my final word on the subject.