George Mills: How One British Trip Captured the World’s Schadenfreude Economy

George Mills: The Everyman Who Became a Global Meme

PARIS—Somewhere between the 17th arrondissement and a hastily booked Ryanair flight, George Mills became the planet’s latest cautionary folk hero. The British amateur runner who collided with Team USA’s Grant Holloway in the Olympic 5,000-meter heat is, depending on which algorithm you ask, either a clumsy tourist who forgot which lane he was in or a geopolitical metaphor for post-Brexit Britain tripping over American exceptionalism. The truth, as usual, is less cinematic and far more profitable.

Within minutes, #GeorgeMills was trending from Lagos to Lima. Nigerian satirists Photoshopped him into traffic jams; Korean K-pop stans turned the tumble into a fan-cam set to a slowed-down version of “Running Up That Hill.” By the time the BBC had finished its solemn apology montage, an enterprising soul in Manila had already minted “MillsCoin,” a cryptocurrency whose value fluctuates in direct proportion to how many times the clip is replayed on TikTok. (Current market cap: $3.7 million and one sprained ankle.)

International schadenfreude is nothing new, but Mills offers an unusually efficient delivery system. He is white, male, Anglo-Saxon, and visibly mortified—basically a diplomatic incident in tube socks. The French press, still nursing a grudge over AUKUS submarine snubs, gleefully labeled the episode “un baroud d’honneur anglo-saxon,” which roughly translates to “yet another Anglo-Saxon face-plant.” Le Monde ran a 1,200-word think piece linking Mills to the decline of the pound sterling, the collapse of the London property market, and the suspicious softness of British cheese. It was accompanied by a graphic of Big Ben tripping over the Statue of Liberty’s torch.

Meanwhile, in Beijing, state broadcaster CGTN looped the collision under the chyron “Western Disunity on Full Display,” conveniently omitting that China’s own 5,000-meter hopeful had been disqualified for elbowing a Kenyan. The incident has since been woven into the curriculum of at least three Party-approved middle-school civics classes under the unit heading “Why Order Matters.”

But the most poignant post-Mills economy is thriving in the global gig-worker archipelago. Fiverr freelancers from Bangladesh to Belarus now offer “Olympic-Level Stumble Re-creations” for corporate team-building videos. Uber Eats drivers in Mexico City honk their horns in solidarity every time the clip airs on the radio. And somewhere in a WeWork in Prague, a junior strategist for an NGO that fights childhood obesity is pitching “The Mills Method: How Falling Flat on Your Face Can Still Propel You Forward.” Deck attached, hourly rate non-negotiable.

The International Olympic Committee, sensing a branding crisis that could cut into its NFT revenues, convened an emergency subcommittee on “Accidental Symbolism.” Their recommendation—delivered via encrypted Zoom from a windowless room in Lausanne—was to reframe Mills as “an ambassador of shared human vulnerability.” Translation: please stop laughing, the sponsors are nervous.

Back in London, Mills himself has reportedly received offers from both the BBC and Netflix. The Beeb wants a redemption documentary narrated by Olivia Colman; Netflix envisions a six-part dramedy starring Andrew Garfield in a wig that looks suspiciously like Boris Johnson’s. Mills’ agent—now upgraded from “guy he met at parkrun” to “guy with a second phone”—claims they’re “reviewing all options, including a limited-edition cereal.”

What does it all mean, beyond the obvious lesson that the internet is a giant Roomba hoovering up dignity and spitting out content? Perhaps that in an age when every stumble is streamed, monetized, and geopolitically weaponized, the only safe move is to stay on the couch. But couches don’t win medals, and medals—at least until the next news cycle—still shine.

So here’s to George Mills, the accidental envoy of our collective pratfall. May his bruises heal before the think pieces do. And should he ever line up for another race, may the starter pistol sound like a cash register—because somewhere, in seventeen languages, the world is already counting the replays.