LONDON—Most commentators agreed it had been a triumph for the nation, proving to the world that Britain was still vibrant and internationally relevant. With their cheerful fortitude, it was said that well-honed British youths had been models of bravery and resilience, covering themselves and their country in glory.

No, not in Afghanistan. Nor in the former Yugoslavia. It was in a far more vile, treacherous environment that these young Britons had proved themselves. It was in Manchester.

Manchester, for those not fortunate enough to be acquainted with its sludgy canals and decaying factories, is a rundown post-industrial slum in the north-west of England. For two weeks in late July and early August, Manchester played host to the largest sports event to be held in England since the 1966 World Cup.

Now, many Americans will not be familiar with the Commonwealth Games. How they could have missed out on the apparently premier sporting contest that pits, say, England’s international rugby sevens team against the mighty sides from Togo or the Cook Islands, is beyond me.

As Britain can no longer beat up its former colonies on the battlefields of sub-Saharan Africa, the expanses of the City of Manchester Stadium became the location where Britons had to prove—more to themselves than any neutral (and, doubtless, uninterested) third party—that they were superior to their colonial underlings.

Could there have been a more fitting sponsor for the event than Imperial Leather soap? Britain’s famous sense of irony must have gone AWOL the night that the sponsorship deal was signed.

Yet these “games” said more about Britain’s perilous future than they did about her inglorious past. Australia, the former penal colony, topped the medal table. Like their criminal ancestors, the Aussies outgunned the weak natives. This time, gold medals awaited them instead of exile. Although it is doubtful whether anyone would have protested too vigorously if they had been ordered to leave grim and grimy Manchester.

The Commonwealth Games were an international irrelevance, yet they were viewed in Britain as a triumph. Never mind that England’s true national stadium in London remains an abandoned construction site as myriad committees blame each other for the project’s stagnation. The F.A. Cup, England’s main soccer competition, is forced to hold its final in a hastily converted rugby stadium—in Wales. (It is as if the Super Bowl always had to take place in the Skydome in Toronto.) But in a culture where mediocrity is expected—if not quite glorified—no one bats an eyelid.

Tim Henman, that most English of tennis players, is lionized for being Wimbledon’s perpetual semi-finalist. That he has never reached the final—for goodness sake, this year he was even outperformed by David Nalbandian who, before the tournament, was known to no one except (perhaps) his mother—is viewed as irrelevant. Damn it, he’s English and his father has an impressive range of blue blazers. Which is what tennis is about after all.

The English World Cup team, meanwhile, made it to the quarterfinals before being defeated by a ten-man Brazilian team. Along the way they had been outplayed by Sweden and Nigeria. Of course, they returned home as heroes.

Britain’s sporting mediocrity would not be terribly interesting were it not for the population’s unshakable belief that it was still a major player in world athletics. Umpteen experts opined that there was a good possibility of Manchester getting the Olympics in 2012 on the back of the Commonwealth Games. Framingham stands a better chance.

Of course, Britain’s ignorantly upbeat worldview stretches far beyond sports. For all of Tony Blair’s best efforts to contribute meaningfully to America’s war on terrorism, Britain is now less known as an international superpower than as the home of Austin Powers.

Almost a hundred years ago, Winston Churchill, the young Liberal member of Parliament, proclaimed that “in the heart of the Empire where the sun never sets, there are courtyards where the sun never rises.” A century on and the Empire is gone; the slums are not. The increasingly Neronian Tony Blair would do well to realize this and dispose his limited resources accordingly.

The Commonwealth Games should have been a national embarrassment, not a cause for jubilation. That a complacent population believed that they were a roaring success is the biggest embarrassment of all.

Anthony S.A. Freinberg ’04, a Crimson editor, is a history concentrator in Lowell House. He is bitter after yet again wasting two weeks of his summer fervently rooting for his countryman Tim Henman.