T’was a day of inconsolable blubbering in the British Empire following Andy Murray’s deficient effort on the hallowed grass of Centre Court. Yet as most of the queen’s denizens wept daintily in their social parlors, goading their colonial subjects into happy dances to resuscitate their spirits, self-deprecating bluebloods from all about the UK convened in celebration of life in the upper crust.
The eighth annual Chap Olympiad, a festival of "athletic ineptitude and immaculate trouser creases," was a tongue-in-cheek showcase of all of the uppity behavior TV has taught us to expect from the British.
Competitions included a shouting-at-foreigners event, a butler-baiting contest, umbrella jousting, cucumber sandwich discus, and a not-playing-tennis showdown, where contestants sat in armchairs and resisted the physical rigors that threaten to moisten one’s brow whilst darting to and fro on the court.
Unlike the actual Olympics, where winners are rewarded with medals and Subway endorsements, the victorious chaps and chapettes were honored with a gold, silver, or bronze cravat, which I assume is some sort of pastry.
In a country that relishes any occasion to assert international superiority, I’m a bit disappointed we Americans weren’t afforded the chance to compete. John Rocker would’ve killed at the shouting-at-foreigners thing. And then Hulk Hogan could’ve come in and busted monocles left and right, ending every event with an atomic leg drop, and claimed Pippa Middleton as his bride. HULKAMANIA IS RUNNIN’ WILD, LADS!
But it’s OK. Just a few more weeks till London gets a hot whiff of our freedom.