/ 6 August 2004

No place like Homer

“I sing of arms and the man. And of his legs. Some toes, too. I sing of …” A thunderflash, the smell of singed hair, and the minstrel was no more.

“These epics are just silly nowadays,” said Zeus, cooling his finger in a vase. The water steamed and the last surviving lily turned brown.

“Does my bum look big in this?” asked Apollo. He had bought a figure-hugging toga that morning, buoyed by a school of water-nymphs who had whistled as he lashed the sun-chariot past their unsavoury street-corner; but now there was a distinct sag in its southern hemisphere.

“Size is relative,” said Athena. “Last night my owl regurgitated half a field-mouse on my pillow. In my anger, the semi-rodent seemed enormous. Today it is a trifle. Such is the world.”

“You are a crazy baggage,” said Zeus. “Right, what’s next on the agenda? And where is bloody Ares? And Dionysus? People, how many times have I spoken about punctuality? And while we’re on the subject of decorum, Aphrodite, please put on some clothes. Yes, they’re lovely, but not at board meetings, okay? Drape this veil somewhere useful.”

Hermes knocked at the door and bowed. “Ares sends his apologies. He’s just on some business. Picked up Pestilence and Famine yesterday morning, all headed off somewhere called Darfur. And Dionysus won’t be joining us. Woke up with a bastard between the eyes. Hair of the dog, all that sort of thing.”

“It’s those mirrors they have in the changing cubicles,” said Apollo. “I have to take this back. My bum looks like a spinnaker.”

“Can we please move along?” said Zeus. “Okay. Olympics, opening ceremony on Friday the 13th. What have we got planned? Athena?”

“I have it on good authority that the Greek organisers have over-filled the ceremonial torch with petrol. Hades, take a note: make room for five marshals, maybe six depending on the prevailing wind and the grade of the petrol. Apart from that, I’m afraid it’s all looking very dull.”

“It never used to be like this,” mused Zeus. “Back in my day the games meant something. None of this crybaby ‘well tried, old fellow’ bilge. Remember the blood, eh, Apollo? The dust! The cheering! And none of that professional rubbish, neither. If you were lucky, you got paid in feta cheese. Lashes with wet bullrushes, if you were Spartan. That’s real sport.”

“And they were naked,” murmured Aphrodite. “This veil is making me claustrophobic. It’s … it’s … oh dear. I’ve accidentally dropped it.”

But Zeus was away, lost in divine reminiscence. “There he is, mighty Labotomes, shot-put titan of Macedonia, with arms of bronze and a brain of the softest thistledown! See how he flings the shot into the harbour, stone after stone, until his coach points him in the right direction!

“And now to the start line strides Mycatasfles, Pet Groomer of Thebes. Already the scribes are preparing their juvenile copy: ‘Mycatasfles wins it in two ticks, fleas across finish line with might and mange.’ But no, there is a challenger! Herpes, epic lover of fallen women, steps forward from the shadows. And let’s not forget Ajax, bright, clean Ajax, who wipes the floor with everyone.”

Athena yawned. “That joke only works in England. And using Handy Andy instead of Ajax ruins the poetics of the whole scenario.”

Far away they could hear the groans of Dionysus as he crawled towards the celestial outhouse. “I am feeling uncomfortable with all this patriarchy,” said Athena.

“I suppose you’re going to try to tell us that women have always been at the games?” guffawed Zeus.

“Not always, but how quickly you have forgotten the first female gymnasts. Fair Hysteria, who scored a perfect 10 and then exploded; or Diaspora, who won bronze despite her ball and ribbons disappearing into the four corners of the arena?

“And surely, father, you remember the rhythmic convulsions of the Corinthian twins, Anorexia and Bulimia? Or brave little Myopia, slamming time after time into the side of the pommel horse before being led away?”

“Hush, baggage!” roared Zeus. “Do not confuse me with logic and fact. I know what I know, and if you defy me, I will vapourise you with my finger.”

“Wasn’t that the motto of the Moscow Olympics?” asked Hermes.

“I mean, apple-shaped is okay for men, but this is looking pear-shaped,” said Apollo. “Maybe I should call Adonis’s personal trainer, whatsisname, Pilates. Just to tighten up, you know. Bloody change-room mirrors.”

Zeus took his finger out of the vase.