In just over two months, the Paris Olympic Games will kick off. The French capital, which is hosting the Games for the first time in a hundred years, will be living to the intense rhythm of the sporting competition. It’s an eagerly awaited event, but one that many French people, Parisians in particular, dread. The cause: the fierce determination of the French organisers to turn the Games into the most desolate showcase for a civilisation corrupted by veganism and transgender propaganda.
“Quand l’homme essaye d’imaginer le Paradis sur terre, ça fait tout de suite un Enfer très convenable” (“When man tries to imagine Paradise on earth, it immediately makes for a very fitting Hell”), summarised the poet Paul Claudel in a pithy phrase that the French authorities in charge of organising the 2024 Olympics could easily adopt as their motto. For the past few months, the French—and with them, the entire public interested in the Olympic Games—have been discovering in bits and pieces everything that has been devised to make this global summer event, which is being held on French soil for the first time since 1924, an ‘exceptional’ moment. In terms of ‘exception’, what we have here is a dismaying and awfully commonplace catalogue of all the hackneyed clichés of a modern world lacking in creativity and rehashing its old obsessions.
Take a look.
For several months now, the city of Paris has been succumbing to the infernal pace of the work—in more than 7,500 locations—supposed to transform the capital into a gigantic stadium. Anarchy reigns everywhere, dust and dirt reign supreme, transport and traffic are as disorganised as ever, but we are told that all this is only temporary, and that it will all be over soon—for a good cause. With the opening of the Games fast approaching, nothing seems to be improving. There are legitimate concerns about what the city will look like to visitors when the time comes.
The transformation of the city is not just functional , but above all aesthetic. Some of the capital’s most emblematic landmarks have been disfigured. The classic columns of the National Assembly are adorned with fluorescent Venus de Milo statues with surfboards and tennis rackets. On the Place de la Concorde, bordered by the masterpieces of architect Gabriel, the Hôtel de Marine and the Hôtel de Crillon, 2,000 tonnes of concrete are to be poured for the skateboarding events.
The face of the City of Light that the organisers want the public to see is made up of cinder blocks, gaudy colours, and concrete in shambles. The artistic choices are consistent with this programme.
The singer Aya Nakamura was personally chosen by Emmanuel Macron for the opening ceremony: a pinnacle of vulgarity and musical nonsense, this ‘personality’ is judged unfit for the job by nearly three-quarters of the French—who have not entirely lost their common sense in the matter. In Marseilles, it was the rapper Jul who carried the flame into the harbour on its arrival on French soil—a singer who certainly shatters sales records, but is distinguished above all by the lyrics of his songs which comprise “apology for drug trafficking, anti-cop hatred, praise for juvenile delinquency, and misogynistic comments,” as the Rassemblement National MP Edwige Diaz points out. The Left is delighted with these choices. The newspaper Libération accused Jul’s detractors of “cultural conservatism“—which is, as you may know, a moral transgression in itself. On the organisers’ side, Jul is being hailed as an “assertive choice” of a “personality who ticks all the boxes.” Which boxes? You can probably guess which ones.
The nightmare is not limited to Paris and Marseilles. The flame’s journey back to Paris is a grotesque parade weaving together bad taste and ideology. The ceremony to light the flame in the ruins of Olympia, which had shone with the dignity of its classical elegance, is consigned to oblivion. Transgender runners and drag queens have taken its place. Everyone has their own little verse. The aim is no longer to celebrate sporting virtues, but to present a programme of societal demands.
The drag queen Minima Gesté was chosen to carry the Olympic flame on the highly symbolic day of July 14th, the French National Holiday.
“As a drag queen, but also as Arthur, a young gay man, I’m extremely proud to be able to carry the flame in Paris on the 14 of July,” he (or she, as you like it) explains. Arthur-Minima sees himself as a torchbearer, but above all as a spokesperson for greater “visibility”: “Visibility is very important. It’s really the fight of a whole generation.”
Minima Gesté is not the only drag queen to have been chosen. A few days ago, Marseilles-born drag queen Nicky Doll, whose real name is Karl Sanchez, carried the Olympic flame in Arles. In terms of visibility, it’s fair to say that the tally for the drag queens is more than good.
No sector has been spared. Instead of seizing the opportunity to celebrate French excellence, everything is done to denigrate and sully it.
In the land of Lacoste and Chanel, the French sports team will have to wear confoundingly ugly sportswear, mocked on social media for its “toothpaste tube” look.
In the land of Bocuse and Troisgros, the poor visitors to the sports village on the Place de la Concorde will be served an infamous green meal of vegan burgers and beetroot falafel, as decided by the organising committee. The aim is certainly not to promote deep-rooted excellence, but to ‘demonstrate’—militancy is everywhere—that you can do sports and do it without meat. We hope that to recover from their efforts, the athletes will not have to make do with chopped beetroot.
All of which hardly arouses the enthusiasm of the crowds. One might have dreamt of a great moment of national unanimity and sporting fervour. In fact, BFM TV reveals that 46% of French people say they are totally indifferent to the arrival of the Games in France.
And yet, like shattered fragments of an ancient frieze, a few beautiful images emerge from the mire, such as the arrival in the port of Marseille of the sailing ship Belem, carrying the Olympic flame from Greece. A white bird made of wind and canvas, it cut through the foam, accompanied by the flight of the Patrouille de France aircraft, in a whirlwind of blue, white, and red. Some memorable shots were taken of this moment of grace, which gave the world an incredible life-size impressionist painting. Proof, if proof were needed, that France is still capable of producing dreams and beauty, as long as it remains faithful to the best of its tradition.
It was a Frenchman, Baron Pierre de Coubertin, who resurrected the Olympic Games in 1896. What would he think of all this?
Paris Olympic Games: A Snapshot of a Progressive Hell
French rapper Julien Mari aka Jul gestures and holds the Olympic Torch
Ludovic MARIN / POOL / AFP
In just over two months, the Paris Olympic Games will kick off. The French capital, which is hosting the Games for the first time in a hundred years, will be living to the intense rhythm of the sporting competition. It’s an eagerly awaited event, but one that many French people, Parisians in particular, dread. The cause: the fierce determination of the French organisers to turn the Games into the most desolate showcase for a civilisation corrupted by veganism and transgender propaganda.
“Quand l’homme essaye d’imaginer le Paradis sur terre, ça fait tout de suite un Enfer très convenable” (“When man tries to imagine Paradise on earth, it immediately makes for a very fitting Hell”), summarised the poet Paul Claudel in a pithy phrase that the French authorities in charge of organising the 2024 Olympics could easily adopt as their motto. For the past few months, the French—and with them, the entire public interested in the Olympic Games—have been discovering in bits and pieces everything that has been devised to make this global summer event, which is being held on French soil for the first time since 1924, an ‘exceptional’ moment. In terms of ‘exception’, what we have here is a dismaying and awfully commonplace catalogue of all the hackneyed clichés of a modern world lacking in creativity and rehashing its old obsessions.
Take a look.
For several months now, the city of Paris has been succumbing to the infernal pace of the work—in more than 7,500 locations—supposed to transform the capital into a gigantic stadium. Anarchy reigns everywhere, dust and dirt reign supreme, transport and traffic are as disorganised as ever, but we are told that all this is only temporary, and that it will all be over soon—for a good cause. With the opening of the Games fast approaching, nothing seems to be improving. There are legitimate concerns about what the city will look like to visitors when the time comes.
The transformation of the city is not just functional , but above all aesthetic. Some of the capital’s most emblematic landmarks have been disfigured. The classic columns of the National Assembly are adorned with fluorescent Venus de Milo statues with surfboards and tennis rackets. On the Place de la Concorde, bordered by the masterpieces of architect Gabriel, the Hôtel de Marine and the Hôtel de Crillon, 2,000 tonnes of concrete are to be poured for the skateboarding events.
The face of the City of Light that the organisers want the public to see is made up of cinder blocks, gaudy colours, and concrete in shambles. The artistic choices are consistent with this programme.
The singer Aya Nakamura was personally chosen by Emmanuel Macron for the opening ceremony: a pinnacle of vulgarity and musical nonsense, this ‘personality’ is judged unfit for the job by nearly three-quarters of the French—who have not entirely lost their common sense in the matter. In Marseilles, it was the rapper Jul who carried the flame into the harbour on its arrival on French soil—a singer who certainly shatters sales records, but is distinguished above all by the lyrics of his songs which comprise “apology for drug trafficking, anti-cop hatred, praise for juvenile delinquency, and misogynistic comments,” as the Rassemblement National MP Edwige Diaz points out. The Left is delighted with these choices. The newspaper Libération accused Jul’s detractors of “cultural conservatism“—which is, as you may know, a moral transgression in itself. On the organisers’ side, Jul is being hailed as an “assertive choice” of a “personality who ticks all the boxes.” Which boxes? You can probably guess which ones.
The nightmare is not limited to Paris and Marseilles. The flame’s journey back to Paris is a grotesque parade weaving together bad taste and ideology. The ceremony to light the flame in the ruins of Olympia, which had shone with the dignity of its classical elegance, is consigned to oblivion. Transgender runners and drag queens have taken its place. Everyone has their own little verse. The aim is no longer to celebrate sporting virtues, but to present a programme of societal demands.
The drag queen Minima Gesté was chosen to carry the Olympic flame on the highly symbolic day of July 14th, the French National Holiday.
“As a drag queen, but also as Arthur, a young gay man, I’m extremely proud to be able to carry the flame in Paris on the 14 of July,” he (or she, as you like it) explains. Arthur-Minima sees himself as a torchbearer, but above all as a spokesperson for greater “visibility”: “Visibility is very important. It’s really the fight of a whole generation.”
Minima Gesté is not the only drag queen to have been chosen. A few days ago, Marseilles-born drag queen Nicky Doll, whose real name is Karl Sanchez, carried the Olympic flame in Arles. In terms of visibility, it’s fair to say that the tally for the drag queens is more than good.
No sector has been spared. Instead of seizing the opportunity to celebrate French excellence, everything is done to denigrate and sully it.
In the land of Lacoste and Chanel, the French sports team will have to wear confoundingly ugly sportswear, mocked on social media for its “toothpaste tube” look.
In the land of Bocuse and Troisgros, the poor visitors to the sports village on the Place de la Concorde will be served an infamous green meal of vegan burgers and beetroot falafel, as decided by the organising committee. The aim is certainly not to promote deep-rooted excellence, but to ‘demonstrate’—militancy is everywhere—that you can do sports and do it without meat. We hope that to recover from their efforts, the athletes will not have to make do with chopped beetroot.
All of which hardly arouses the enthusiasm of the crowds. One might have dreamt of a great moment of national unanimity and sporting fervour. In fact, BFM TV reveals that 46% of French people say they are totally indifferent to the arrival of the Games in France.
And yet, like shattered fragments of an ancient frieze, a few beautiful images emerge from the mire, such as the arrival in the port of Marseille of the sailing ship Belem, carrying the Olympic flame from Greece. A white bird made of wind and canvas, it cut through the foam, accompanied by the flight of the Patrouille de France aircraft, in a whirlwind of blue, white, and red. Some memorable shots were taken of this moment of grace, which gave the world an incredible life-size impressionist painting. Proof, if proof were needed, that France is still capable of producing dreams and beauty, as long as it remains faithful to the best of its tradition.
It was a Frenchman, Baron Pierre de Coubertin, who resurrected the Olympic Games in 1896. What would he think of all this?
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