Faster than a speeding pullet, that is a pullet dragging three tractor tyres, would be an apposite description of life in the fast lane of today’s London. Indeed, when a man is tired of London, he’s probably been sitting motionless in a car for several hours in a cloud of carbon monoxide. One could say such a man was exhausted rather than tired. The vast array of incredibly expensive, yet stationary, trophy vehicles is ironically only equalled by the profusion of “pound” or thrift shops. Can there be a clearer sign of a hopelessly divided society? I am not tired of London but I am tired by London. Instead of the excitement brought on by the anticipation of a thriving and fashionable city, there is a feeling of imposed inertia that enervates the spirit. This inertia does not solely relate to the mechanical, but appears to have entered the soul of the place. Unreal expectations are incarnated in the jagged toothed skyline of architect’s egos, and in the follies arising in the wasteland that is Olympic London. Medals should be struck for the new event of actually getting to the stadia. A sad coach trip to sad Stansted airport took me through the blunderland that will be home to these unwelcome games. The much publicised picture of Mayor Boris Johnson standing, suited and booted, atop the 10m diving board over the Olympic pool was the image of a modern day Icarus. In my youth I remember cards posted in telephone boxes showing the availability of spectacularly beautiful girls who. for the price of a phone call and a small stipend, would fulfil all one’s desires. Let us hope that the purchasers of tickets for the Olympics can keep the illusion going until the moment of reality when the door opens on the reeking Hogarthian hag. What appears to have happened is that England has become the victim of its own overreaching colonialism and has itself become the casbah.