You have, perhaps, been too busy keeping up with startling events in the United States, such as Jessica Alba’s pregnancy, to notice an occurrence of world importance overseas.
A chap called Max Mosley, who is the President of the FIA, an organization that appears to have jurisdiction over motor sports such as Formula One racing, has got himself into a bit of a bind.
Formula One racing is a little like Indy Car racing, except for the fact that they let drivers from obscure countries like Finland and Germany win. Occasionally.
Now Mr. Mosley, an Englishman with eyebrows thicker than than a member of American Airlines cabin crew, was filmed recently with five prostitutes, who seemed to take turns in hitting his bare bottom with sticks and other implements.
As you are probably aware, this is a classic afternoon parlor game for any English public schoolboy, so there should be no reason for such behavior to warrant even the tiniest squeal of displeasure.
However, Mr. Mosley is being consistently berated, something that the film evidence suggests he quite likes, because during his fleeting beating he appeared to be shouting commands in a German accent. An accent that might have reminded some viewers of the TV show Hogan’s Heroes.
Mr. Mosley is denying that his flight into German fancy had any Hitlerian overtones.
He explained, quite reasonably, that he was speaking in German because two of the five ladies were, in fact, German speakers.
It is also entirely irrelevant that his father, Sir Oswald Mosley, was the head of the British Fascist Party.
And where did the slimy tabloid newspaper come up with the thought that Mr. Mosley spent some of the five-hour session acting out the fantasy of a concentration camp victim? Probably in some pub after seven of eight pints of lager.
Although it is a little perplexing to hear that two of the prostitutes wore German Army uniforms, while the other three had strangely striped prison uniforms that did not appear to have been bought at Brooks Brothers.
My thoughts were with Mr. Mosley today shortly after I looked up at the Golden Gate Bridge and noticed three protesters trying to attract the world’s attention to the plight of Tibetans and the apparent scandal of China hosting the Olympics while allegedly subjugating the Dalai Lama and his fellow countrymen.
My thoughts then wandered to Juan Antonio Samaranch, a previous head of the International Olympic Committee, who brought the Games to Spain despite having been rather closely associated with the egregiously liberal regime of General Franco.
Now I would not dream of suggesting that all those with tight connections to some sort of uniform philosophy are prone to Teutonic ululation to aid their communal masturbation.
However, I am concerned that in the very highest echelons of world sport, there seems to exist more than a smattering of old men, they seem always to be men, who exhibit a fondness for authoritarian bent.
Which begs the question. And begs it again. And begs it again.
Why didn’t these people spend their lives in politics? How is it that they found their domination aspirations satisfied by sport? What has sport done to deserve their ministrations?
Now I don’t want to bleat this thought till it bleeds as Mr. Mosley’s trim 67-year-old body apparently did during his grand spree.
But we would surely all be surprised if, for example, Eliot Spitzer, had fantasized about Stalag Number 9 during his time as Client Number 9.
We would surely have been stunned to hear that Senator Larry Craig found that lederhosen, jackboots and a riding crop heightened his sense of private pleasure.
Yet something about Mr. Mosley’s moving movie performance, specifically when he has his private parts checked for lice, makes it seem all too, well, normal.
Could it be that there are members of the International Olympic Committee whose decision to give the games to China might have been influenced by their being just the slightest bit excited by a little authoritarian action?
I expect the protests of the Golden Gate Bridge’s social climbers to stimulate a full and frank expression of feelings from the Olympic Movement.
Or, as the Tibetans refer to them, OM.
The Pond thanks Ho Wai for explaining it all in pictures.