DON’T watch Question Time. It never has any answers. It is full of people shouting. And if I want that I can get it at home. And I live alone.
But I would love a decent question of sport. Not the cuddly, unfunny quiz show. More a serious, informed discussion on what millions of people have just watched. Broadcasters attempt with some success to do this in tennis, rugby and racing. Football on mainstream telly remains the home of the celebrity pundit who simply is not up to the job.
ITV and BBC have conspired during the Euros to make Sky Sports look like Brasenose College, Oxford, in terms of information, comment and gravitas. Geez, Jamie Carragher and Graeme Souness now resemble a sporting pundit’s reincarnation of Walter Cronkite and Richard Dimbleby.
If the TV coverage has been gently irritating, like a stone in your trainer or your kidney, England v Iceland was surely the nadir for public service broadcasting.
The theme was that the plucky Icelanders had done so well to travel so far and would be undone by mighty England in the round of 16. Incredibly, fantastically, this theme persisted with no regard to what was happening on the pitch. In a display of arrogance so breath-taking a nation reached for its inhaler, Mark Pougatch, the ITV anchorman, asked his panel if Roy Hodgson would select Joe Hart, a hapless even hopeless goalkeeper, for the quarter-finals. Iceland were leading 2-1 at this moment. Pougatch, of course, should have been asking his panellists if Hodgson would ever select another English side.
The anchorman on the Beeb is Gary Lineker. Our national broadcaster obviously believes that he is the answer. But surely only if the question is cheery chappie who aspires to end every show with a quip. His dying words will surely be: “It’s been some life and I am out of breath after all of that.” Followed by a cheeky wink before the doctor closes his eyes.
On a night when England produced one of its worst results, Lineker allowed his panel to chunter on about how awful it all was without any sense of direction or even scrutiny. This reached a peak of Everest sitting on top of Annapurna sitting on top of Linker’s wallet proportions when Alan Shearer indicated that he would do the job.
The next question should have been: “Alan, you played for England 63 times, winning no major trophy. Indeed your international career finished in the 2000 Euros when you were part of a side that lost to Romania. Your management career extends to eight matches at the tiller of Newcastle United when you successfully navigated them into a lower division. Can you see why the FA might, just might pass on employing you?”
Instead, Lineker made a quip – hopefully, but not definitely, a quip – that Shearer and his co-panellist Rio Ferdinand could form a “dream team” for England.
One accepts that the football brand on telly is essentially seen as part of the entertainment remit. One accepts that interrogators with the subtle wit of Eddie Mair or the bombastic belligerence of Andrew Neil might not be preferred candidates to host a live football show.
But football and the football fan deserves much better. There is an undeniable, persistent strategy of treating the punter as a mug. When someone like Danny Murphy or Lee Dixon attempts to talk anything resembling sense or anything that might inform the viewer, they are closed down as if they were a midfielder dallying on the ball against Barcelona.
The mass of pundits on terrestrial telly during these Euros have been lazy, almost uninterested. Thierry Henry seems to know as much about football as the average Martian without a Sky subscription. He is either not being prepared properly by production staff or he does not care. He seeks, so far lucratively, to sail propelled by the warm winds of the Henry brand.
Others, most notably Mark Lawrenson, believe it is just enough to turn up, have someone switch on the mike and prattle on. Every foreign player seems to be a surprise for Lawro. One waits for him to say: “Hey, that Buffon is some goalie. Where did he spring from?”
It is not as if most of the celebrities respond to even the most gentle of inquiries. Shearer, in his defence, was robust for the BBC and Dixon, who even managed to shoehorn in some analysis when no one was looking, was excellent for ITV. But generally insight is as rare as a Scottish shot on target against Georgia.
Peter Crouch seems a lovely big bloke but so is my mate Tam and I would not have him on primetime TV, though his teeth are less alarming than those of the Stoke City striker. Peter, bless him, told us he was speechless. One screamed at the telly that being struck silent may have been beneficial if he was preparing for a trial for the Trappist XI but was less welcome when he was on telly, trousering more thousands of pounds, to give his opinion. Ian Wright had no ideas. He told us this.
All the unanswered queries, all the unresolved issues, all the sighing and enthusiastic criticism raised another question. If football is serious enough to pay top dollar to cover, is it worthy of some substance, some degree of intelligent inquiry?
And don’t all shout at once.
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