As the Olympic quest rifles through us with inordinate tedium, and shakes us out to dry with it's soporific cultural manifesto, I am reminded of a particularly educational 'Olympic Night' I shared with some ladies calling themselves 'Olympia Moments Ltd' and the task I have immediately to hand of recalling their very special achievements in words to accompany a book of photographs by Julie Cook. Sebastian Coe might have grown beyond some permanent impression of a sulky prefect if he could even have imagined these monthly events (recorded over six years) that became a cornerstone of our healthiest enjoyment of the world.
Above you see them embroiled in some synchronized swimming on the floor of a pub. There was no winner, but there were huge congratulations all round, and tidy benefit to all. This ballsy, cynical parody somewhere in Aldgate I think, became, to us, revolutionary theatre. It was some kind of representation of the 'permanent revolution' you found in your theory texts. I remember my first ticket from this women only co-operative/initiative, I remember getting Julie along the next month, I remember the time she began, with enormous trust, to take photographs and record the events.
Those people working outside the margins of common respectability, but doing it because they like it, demand respect, not derision. There was never any trouble at these events, indeed I more than once exclaimed that the NHS should prescribe them as therapy. Wheelchairs were welcome. People who criticize sexually based entertainment tend to do so out of fear, not morality.