The £125,000 Heptathlete

A friend of a friend of mine said (that’s how all journalistic articles should start) that he put £50 on Jenson Button to win the BBC Sports Personality of the Year award this year. He put it on in January before the F1 season started and thus was offered the slightly unlikely odds of 2500-1. Which means he stands to win £125,000. Not bad.

I assume that the wager was placed on a hunch and that he wasn’t so calculated as to smuggle in a mole to file clandestine reports from the Brawn testing track over the winter. I also have to speculate as to the thought processes of the bookmaker who thought that the chances of Button winning were so microscopically small. Button is after all not only a personality, but also one involved in a sport and there are relatively few of those about, particularly competing near the higher level of one of the nation’s favourites.

I have always found the title of Sports Personality of the Year profounding troubling. It suggests that some distinction should be made from Sportsperson of the Year, that aspects of the entrant’s character should be factored into the qualifying criteria. But if you should glance down at the roll of honour, it’s pockmarked with the names of virtual charisma vacuums all the way down.

If Button does win this weekend in Brazil, or in Abu Dhabi in a few weeks, then he is by no means a certainty to drive off with the small silver olden-days television camera (that is what it is – isn’t it?). Lewis Hamiton didn’t when he won. It’s quite difficult to endear yourself to the sporting public by spending a couple of hours with your face masked by a helmet and then finish it off by liberally spraying expensive beverages in the faces of your rivals at the end of it.

Jessica Ennis is probably a better bet. Polite and humble and above all, with a face that you can see. Maybe the bookmaker knew something after all.

Not Nice To See You

I sometimes tune into Strictly Come Dancing. Mainly because there are few more amusing sights on the television than an arrhythmical man enthusiastically dancing the salsa. At one stage during the footage of Chris Hollins’ rehearsals it actually looked like he was fucking the wall.

One point of note was when Bruce Forsyth heard one of the many voices in his head – this time from the producers – and interrupted proceedings with an unduly excitable announcement that BBC1 were due to broadcast the highlights of the Ukraine vs England game later that evening. Nice to see the highlights from Dnipropetrovsk, to see the highlights from Dnipropetrovsk nice!

Brucie had clearly baulked at the price of the online subscription to watch the match because he surely wouldn’t have been so keen to promote the whole sorry affair. I ended up watching People Do The Funniest Things on ITV which is the most damning indictment of the quality of the football that I can think of. Sadly it wasn’t starring Rio Ferdinand.

See Ya Ceefax

When ITV announced that they were pulling the plug on the Teletext computer next January, two years before scheduled, it felt a bit like they had set out plans to take it to Switzerland for an assisted suicide. Because Teletext, and its more salubrious BBC cousin Ceefax, has been terminally ill since the onset of the digital age.

I will cherish Teletext and Ceefax in their obselescence. Like a pair of threadbare old teddy bears, they have lived beyond their usefulness but they still retain their charm. The grand old men of televisual information services have also sown an unusual stitch in the sporting fabric.

I imagine that most sportsmen will revel in the demise of Teletext and Ceefax, for only bad tidings live on its pages. I have lost count of the indignant cricketers or footballers or ruggers outraged at discovering they’ve missed out on a Caribbean tour or been sold to Swindon Town or been banned for shoving chang up their schnozz. Finding out rubbish stuff on the BBC red button digital interactive service just isn’t the same.

My Granny Could Win The Ashes

The crows emanating from Australia last night were heard across the globe, scoffing at the fanciful notion that England could regain the Ashes this summer after their orange nightmare. Well after the Aussies were obliterated by the West Indies today perhaps the volume might be turned down a little on all that Antipodean bluster. At this rate nobody is going to win the urn.

In the field, the West Indians did everything but helpfully chuck the ball over the boundary for their opponents as they clowned around among the pigeons at the Oval. And still the Australians didn’t score enough.

Because when Chris Gayle began his blitzkrieg with the bat not only were the crowd in danger of bombardment but also innocents in the back gardens of Kennington and Stockwell. It was a famous innings. No wonder he likes this format so much.

I have to thank Fabio Capello’s England team for producing 40 minutes of turgid football which gave me full licence to flick over with importunity to the cricket fun. And by some happy chance and with nifty remote controlmanship I was able to witness both first-half England goals which rendered victory facile. I was helped by Sky’s new blue button technology which allows the viewer to return to the previous channel they were watching with just one press: truly the greatest invention of the 21st century. For the armchair sports fan at least.

Pull Up To The Bumper, Andy

Musical chairs is an boisterous game mainly played at children’s parties. And, in the recent weeks, the ITV studio. It seems that Steve Rider and Andy Townsend have swapped seats, eschewing the traditional anchor-pundit line-up. During the coverage of Saturday’s Cup Final, Townsend was pushed to operate wide out on the right with Rider taking up a more central role. Which meant that when Rider addressed the other guests on the left of the screen, he could not help but turn his back on his faithful colleague.

Now there was a echo to this unusual tableau, the origins of which became clear to me some time after the final whistle. It resonated with the memories of an infamous occasion in 1981 on the Russell Harty Show, during which the host was attacked by the terrifying disco diva Grace Jones. She complained that he was ignoring her as he swivelled his seat to face his other guest.

I am not suggesting that Townsend was about to start slapping at Rider’s back like a deranged kitten, but I did feel a little sympathy for him: I half-expected him to raise his hand and cough loudly when he wanted to wrestle the easy Rider’s attention back from the other pundits. And it seems unfair on the Rider, a man whose politeness has ascended to legendary status, to force him into the invidious position of freezing out his cohort from the conversation.

Townsend probably doesn’t give a crap: anywhere, including the cobwebbed extremeties of the commentary box, is better than the blessed Tactics Truck. If Townsend was the guinea pig in this hideous football punditry experiment, then the Tactics Truck was his grotty undersized cage.

A rumour went round in television circles that Townsend refused to leave the truck and at one point locked himself in. When worried producers managed to prise the door open they discovered him hiding under his desk, blinking at the natural light. They concluded that he had turned slightly feral and allowed him to stay there, but not before putting old newspaper down on the floor of the truck. Wierdly, the punditry improved.

Seconds Out: It’s Ten Rounds With Alliss

Judging by the BBC coverage of the Masters, the clouds of emnity that gathered over the relationship between Peter Alliss and Gary Lineker may have parted somewhat. But I suspect that their uneasy alliance is merely borne of professionalism as opposed to a newfound chumminess. The vaguely patronising avuncularity of the older man and young Lineker’s (as Alliss calls him) training-ground banter are a combination as well suited as a Woods-Mickelson foursome pairing. When Lineker explained that the over-running of the golf had delayed the episode of Robin Hood due to be shown next, he dared compare Alliss to Friar Tuck. The chunter that emanated from the commentary box was almost visible. It’s the ultimate chunter-banter conflict if you like.

Their battle is part of a bigger war, the skirmishes of which have been waged in the clubhouses of this land for decades now. It’s a class war. A bloody civil war between the middle classes. The two sides fall in regularly at the golf course.

The Alliss tribe cravenly sip their whiskey macs around a small table on the verandah. They talk of many things: the weather, dear old George’s gout, the inevitable decline of this country. But mainly they look over with suspicion in the direction of the Linekers.

The Linekers gather in the spike bar around the fruit machines. They insult each other loudly while necking Heineken. And eating crisps of course.

The Allisses think that the Linekers’ socks are too short. And they don’t like their plans for an extension to the clubhouse for a jacuzzi. And then there was that incident when a Lineker Audi was found parked in the secretary’s spot.

The Linekers pay little heed to the Allisses, but often take delight in firing a three-wood up the backsides of an Alliss fourball if they are playing a little too slow.

All this of course infers that the only root of Peter Alliss’ mistrust of Gary Lineker is inveterate old snobbery. He may just think that Lineker is a rubbish golf anchor. Which he is. His matey charm translates from the Match Of The Day studio to the Butler Cabin as wooden “tryhardism”.

In fairness to Lineker, as successor to Steve Rider he had some big shoes to fill. Nice deck shoes and a well-tailored pair of chinos actually. Now there is a man with class.

Do Accountants Dream of Electric Sheep?

As the University Challenge scandal trimbles on, my suspicions of a wider conspiracy are taking on a greater, more sinister shape. I have become increasingly agitated ever since I read this article about this report of the Newcastle vs Sale rugger game in the Guinness Premiership.

For Sam Kay read Andrew Fenby: an accountant inveigling itself into society as a near perfect replica of a human being, indistiguishable except for a lack of empathic response. You just have to look in their eyes. They’re dead.

The most frightening aspect of this is that both Kay and Fenby are employed by the same company: Pricewaterhouse Coopers. They may be producing these accountants on an industrial scale. I called the headquarters for an official comment on the situation but they not only declined to comment they also told me to go away because I was a bit strange. Suspicious.

The line between real and accountant life has become blurred, so watch out for more fugitives: if you are unfortunate to come across one my suggestion would be to to try to embarass it or maybe compliment it: tell it you like its hair. If it’s human it will blush. If it’s an accountant,  it will maintain it’s lifeless pallor.

And remember to look behind the eyes. There’s honestly nothing there.

Burns Night

A world without Woolworths is one thing. But life without Emmerdale is a bleak dystopian vision that even the most pessimistic futurist would have difficulty comprehending. Slightly overdramatic possibly, but news that ITV is closing its Kirkstall Road studios in Leeds will be sending shockwaves through sitting rooms the nation over. But despite the cutbacks, filming continues and the doors of the Woolpack remain open. And the viewing punters keep pouring in.

However the Sunday night staple of Heartbeart has been told go and put its feet up and have a cup of cocoa: production has been suspended. The plan is to broadcast the stockpile of episodes already in the can and then resume filming in sunnier economic climes. But the denizens at ITV should be wary of prolonging the break too much: sometimes absence does not make the collective heart grow fonder.

The Krypton Factor returned to the screen in January after 13 years and ITV sounded the trumpets in fanfare: “we are taking a brilliant format and bringing it bang up to date with state-of-the-art technology.”

Amazing. My first thought was how this new technology was to be applied to the response round: that part of the show where the contestant was required to land a plane or a helicopter or a space shuttle using a flight simulator. I had visions of some whizzo virtual reality concept where competitors fought against evil aliens in a massive intergalactic scrap. Instead we got nothing. The round was scrapped.

I see no reason why the production team couldn’t have removed the tarpaulin off the old simulator and given her another spin: the response round was strangely riveting and had huge comic potential. I remember sobbing with laughter watching one confused contestant ignore the runway completely and career off into the stratosphere perhaps to an attempt a lunar landing. A laudable, if misjudged, game plan.

The observation round was also entertaining. It was usually based on a specially-made skit starring Tony Slattery or Bob Carolgees or some other god of the televisual pantheon. For the new series they have just raided the ITV archives to use clips from favourites shows of the recent past. I’ve heard there’s a few spare episodes of Heartbeat in case you’re interested.

The assault course has returned as well, and was hyped up as “iconic, menacing and 100% entertaining”. Which is true. If you consider a man slowly climbing up a tree to be iconic and menacing. I’d rate it as 47% entertaining. The lack of physical prowess among the contestants makes it feels like you’re watching a team-building weekend for an insurance company.

The essential problem with the Krypton Factor is that it has been brought back on a budget. It makes you wonder why they bothered. I assume that ITV banked on the original magic of the show adding the requisite lustre without having to throw money at it. It’s slightly like renewing your wedding vows at KFC.

And of course the most ingredient was missing: Gordon Burns. Bring him back and the audience ratings would go the same way as that lady in flight simulator: into orbit.

Burns. Immaculate.

More Questions Than Answers. For A Change.

Ah. So it was an evil plot after all. Turns out that Sam Kay, the shambling presence on the left wing of the victorious Corpus Christi University Challenge team, was not all he said he was.

He was in fact an accountant masquerading as a student. Which is a pretty rum do if you ask me.The elders at the college hastily concocted some spurious story about Kay’s failure to get funding for a PhD forcing him to leave the university. But I’ve watched a lot of Morse so I know that more often than not there is something more sinister occuring behind the closed doors of these Oxford colleges.

It’s a plausible theory that Kay was merely a pawn in the machinations of the college: a whey-faced bean counter exploited for his boyish looks, forced to gel his hair up into an artful spike to reinforce the juvenile look.

I’m not sure of the extent of this subterfuge went and how much of a double-life Kay actually led.

But I like to think of him sneaking out of his two-bedroom detached house in leafy Surrey, leaving the wife and kids behind, and heading to the dreaming spires to immerse himself in the student culture. To hit the college bars, steal a traffic cone or two, sample a Pot Noodle, all the stereotypical studenty things: anything to perpetuate the myth.

His bosses at work will have asked questions: why the dark circles under the eyes? Why a sudden passion for Quincy MD? What’s with the faint smell of Snakebite and Black on the breath? It’s little wonder that it all unravelled on him.

And I want to know how wide the conspiracy was: and more importantly was Gail Trimble involved? I hinted in my last post that she may not be all that she seemed. Apparently she was unavailable for interview today – I suspect she may have already absconded. Halfway to South America probably.

Well it’s a good job she’s a whizz at answering questions. She may be hauled in to answer a few more.

A piece about Gail Trimble. Everyone else has written one.

The green room at Granada Studios in Manchester before the filming of University Challenge can be a disconcerting place. For a start it isn’t green. It’s more beige. With a dash of burgundy in the soft furnishings.

And then there are intense pockets of poindexters poring over the Periodic Table. Or with their eyes screwed shut reciting sonnet 113 while their colleagues gurgle their approval. The air is thick with the smell of trivia.

And if you aren’t nervous enough by then, in He walks.

The Paxman. The man with the face of a rottweiller and the reputation of a baboon. I’m getting mixed up. Sorry I’m nervous, I’m having flashbacks to my own time in the green room.

But this year there was something more intimidating for the fearful contestants. A woman with all the facts of the cosmos sucked in through her ears and lodged in her cranium for her to retain as she pleases.

Gail Trimble has crossed over in royal fashion. The Observer and the Today programme are one thing. But the tabloids and BBC Breakfast are quite another. I nearly spat out my Coco Pops when I saw her flirting with Bill Turnbull.

It’s been a momentous week for quizdom. Not only did we have Trimbo stepping up over here, but the night before in LA, a film about a man who cleans up on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire dominates proceedings at the Oscars. It seems that maybe the geeks are eventually about to the earth.

There is the faint suspicion that behind the placid facade of Trimble there is an evil genius intent on global domination. So what? I say good luck to her. The world would probably be a better place. It would certainly be less ignorant. She could retain her three minions: Marsden, Schwartzman and Kay. The latter exudes the faint air of Igor: the imagination doesn’t stretch too far to picture him hobbling behind Ms Trimble lisping “master, master.”

So here’s to you Gail Trimble. Watching you shift through the gears on Monday night to take the UC laurels was a genuinely thrilling televisual experience. And it’s not often you can say that about a quizzer. I should know.