The build-up to the 2012 London Olympics involved an enormous organisational effort to ensure infrastructure and facilities would afford optimum security, accessibility, and comfort for competitors, officials, media and spectators alike.
The 'Olympic Village', for housing teams from all nations, was a new multistory, hi-tech apartment block, ultimately destined to be sold off as living accommodation for the general public. To ensure a safe and secure environment for food preparation, given the stringent dietary requirements of athletes, a centralised catering service was laid on, allowing the builders to get away with not having to provide kitchen facilities in each apartment. Personally, I couldn't be doing without my cheese toasties in the middle of the night. But then, I didn't qualify for the Olympics anyway. Shut up.
Bedrooms, however, were an obvious necessity. And no one was naive enough to imagine beds would not get shared. Indeed, the Olympic Committee, with commendable vision, fully expected a great deal of 'sharing', given the whole block would be full of fit, strapping, hormone-crazed human specimens in the prime of life. In view of this, the organisers made freely available a supply of high-specification condoms, all specially packaged. With meticulous attention to detail, their logo was printed on each packet, with of course, the accompanying Olympic motto: "Citius, Altius, Fortius". Which, as we all know, is Latin for "Faster... Higher... Stronger..." Mmm...
One may think such bedroom exertions would be detrimental to an athlete's chances of success in an upcoming competition. But, while having it off just before your event is not considered tactically prudent on the grounds of your being totally knackered, it's generally accepted, though the area is sadly lacking in research, that performing in the bedroom the night before, does little to affect performance in the stadium the following day. Indeed, sexual activity increases testosterone levels in men, thus actually enhancing their competitiveness.
And in any case, apparently, sex doesn't use up a vast amount of energy -- certainly true judging by the efforts of some of my past boyfriends. In fact, on average, people only burn off 50 calories per bonk -- bad news for those who exploit such occasions to justify woofing down a bar of Cadburys afterwards. What are you looking at me for?
An eminent sports physician famously reported that, as a result of heightened bodily responsiveness, women get better results in competition after orgasm, and the more orgasms, the more chances of winning a medal. Well, if that's true, I'm prepared to put in the work and make the sacrifice for team and country, but I rather fancy that the eminent sports physician in question was simply trying to improve his own chances of getting his leg over.
Grigor, the old-guard-soviet coach for the Danzakhstan contingent, did not share my cynical view. Set on achieving results by fair means or foul, he had already been in trouble for use of illegal equipment and banned substances. Desperate to enhance performance in an undetectable way, he now was intent on making the most of the body's natural mechanisms, and readily took on board the eminent sports physician's theories. The lithe and shapely Svetlana was Danzakhstan's main medal hope in the Taekwondo 69kg category, and Grigor was determined to get the very ultimate effort out of his prized athlete. He set about trying to convince her that orgasms meant medals.
"But, Grigor, boyfriend driving tractor back in homeland," Svetlana pleaded.
"At this level, Svetlana girl, hundredth of second speed, millimetre of accuracy, or microgram of weight behind secret rabbit punch when referee blink, make all difference between gold, and kaputshit. Think of Mother Country, Svetlana, you have duty."
"But, Grigor..."
"Who needs boyfriend, Svetlana girl," the wizened old coach interrupted, "this London -- capital of decadent Western cesspit-world. Everything available at touch of button. No need boyfriend. I arrange service call, 9pm tonight. Be ready. Lay back and think of Danzakhstan."
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Terry was a down-to-earth Eastender and versatile odd-job man. He had relished the opportunity of work when the Olympics were awarded to London, and was delighted that the main venue site was chosen to be Stratford -- Terry's stomping ground. He had got himself into the pool of contractors employed to sort out teething problems with the newly completed accommodation block, and deal with ongoing maintenance issues during the Games. He was on late shift, and checking the smoke alarms in D-Wing.
"Yes, who is it?" called Svetlana, a little startled by the ringing of her door-bell. It was only 8.15pm.
"Maintenance," Terry sang back. "Just a service call."
Svetlana opened her door. "But you early," she said, looking him up and down. He was in overalls, a flat cap, and displayed on his face two days of unattended stubble. Svetlana was pleasantly surprised -- she had feared that her arranged date would be some suited pretty-boy from the city, but Terry uncannily reminded her of Dmitri, her beefy, straightforward, farm-working lover back home. Her heart warmed accordingly.
