The Mail's odd campaign against "plastic Brit" Olympic athletes

Is everyone born abroad somehow not really British?

The Daily Mail's campaign against some of the Olympic athletes who will compete for Team GB - lambasting them as "plastic Brits" -  has always struggled for consistency. Partly, it was that the Daily Mail brought about the most egregious "passport of convenience" case with Zola Budd in 1984, by campaigning on her behalf. Mostly, it was a refusal to define the terms, so that different Mail writers attacked the British credentials of some athletes whom their colleagues praised.

I've written before about this, noting:

Twelve per cent of people in Britain today are foreign-born. Because that percentage is twice as high in London, the Olympic host city, the team of Olympic volunteers will probably have more multinational roots than Team GB. As a newspaper that celebrates patriotism and integration, the Mail could celebrate that 70 per cent of those born abroad feel a strong sense of belonging to Britain, even slightly outscoring those born in this country (66 per cent), as a State of the Nation poll found. They don't think they are Plastic Brits; instead, they fly their flags with pride.

One thing that was stressed for the defence was that this was not a pejorative attempt to attack all foreign-born athletes as "Plastic". But it transpires that the Mail has run a news story defining and counting the Plastic Brits: declaring there are 61 plastic Brits in Team GB, once the Mail defines a plastic Brit as "any citizen who was born abroad". It seems that both Mo Farah and Belgian-born Bradley Wiggins are "plastic" after all. And poor Prince Phillip is a Plastic Brit too.

I have written to Mail editor Paul Dacre suggesting that Friday's opening ceremony would be a good moment to adopt the tradition of an Olympic truce (see below).

Once the torch is lit in Stratford, it should be time to set aside the “plastic Brits” controversy for a fortnight, and to instead join the London crowds in their desire to get behind every Olympian invited to compete for Britain. If the Mail can bring itself to wave the Union Jack for all of the Olympic athletes chosen to compete for Britain, then they could count all of the medals that they win for Team GB in the medal table too.

--

Dear Mr Dacre,

The next fortnight will see the country rally around Team GB in the hope that they will write another golden chapter in the proud history of British sport.

The Daily Mail’s sports pages have sparked a lively and controversial debate in challenging some of the Olympic athletes selected to compete for Britain as “plastic Brits”, where they are naturalised citizens, or have qualified for the Olympic team through parental connections to Britain. The Mail has also praised the pride and contribution of many foreign-born Brits, such as Mo Farah, who arrived here as an 11-year old from war-torn Somalia to become a world-beating athlete.

No Team GB member has been able to jump the citizenship and immigration queue, nor bend the rules of their sport, though this has also been a debate about how best to reflect the spirit of international sport.

This “plastic Brits” debate has sparked passion from all sides.  But might the opening ceremony provide an ideal moment to adopt the tradition of an Olympic truce?

Once the torch is lit in Stratford, it should be time to set aside the “plastic Brits” controversy for a fortnight, and to instead join the London crowds in their desire to get behind every Olympian invited to compete for Britain.

The London Olympics will be an experience that many of us hope we and our children will remember for a lifetime. So let’s wave the Union Jack for all of the Olympic athletes chosen to compete for Britain – and count all of the medals that they win for Team GB in the medal table too.

Best wishes,

Sunder Katwala

Director, British Future

Bradley Wiggins: born in Belgium. Photo: Getty Images

Sunder Katwala is director of British Future and former general secretary of the Fabian Society.

Getty
Show Hide image

The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad