What do vuvuzelas, Louie Spence and getting your foreskin caught in your flies all have in common? All are significantly less painful and annoying than the recent World Cup coverage.
Football is a game of opinions. Watching a game of football is like reading a novel or watching a film: they are all open to interpretation. Ideally, coverage should be like a York Notes for football, offering in-depth analysis that would make even @zonal_marking purr. Instead, the World Cup coverage provided by BBC and ITV is the equivalent of having the finer nuances of The Brothers Karamazov explained by Miss South Carolina. I feel as though Iâve spent the last month being bludgeoned to death by clubs made out of chicken wire, tired clichés and human faeces.
The anchors of both stations are largely inoffensive, though Adrian Chilesâ pre USA versus England anti-America tirade was a miscalculation to say the least. It is not even the multitude of errors (most notably ITV HD opting to cut to an advertisement as Steven Gerrard opened the scoring against the USA) that riles me. Rather, it is the complete lack of intelligent discussion from the âexpertâ? pundits.
Alan Shearer, whose hairline has receded further than a Shaolin Monksâ testes, is less insightful than a cephalopod mollusc â although Paul the psychic octopus has been particularly acute with his recent predictions. Shearer is as intelligent as his goal scoring celebration was creative and when commenting on Peleâs assertion that an African team would win the World Cup before 2000, he muttered: âI think itâs going to be longerâ?. Really, Alan? Are you sure?
Shearer presumably graduated from the same school of âstating the obviousâ? as Andy Townsend (who shares the same facial features as a bull terrier), with both offering pearls of wisdom that have included: âThis is a game neither side will want to loseâ? and âA goal now will change the gameâ?. Shearerâs use of droll, outdated clichés, and his lack of tactical knowledge, makes his four point haul (and subsequent relegation) as manager of Newcastle seem an achievement in retrospect, rather than the failure one might have originally considered it.
All the pundits suffer from a lack of relevant information regarding âlesser nationsâ?. Lee Dixon, while talking about Slovakia, remarked: âWe donât know a lot about them.â? Rather than do research, he was âgivenâ? the name of Slovakia captain and Napoli star Marek Hamsik, which he merely mentioned in isolation with no elaboration. The majority of the punditsâ knowledge pool is criminally limited to the Premier League, and the odd Champions League encounter (but only if an English team is involved).
Equally frustrating is the lack of gusto on show. Mark Lawrenson has about as much enthusiasm for football as I have for being bukaked by the entire England football team, while Edgar Davids wears a pained expression that suggests heâs spent the afternoon being spit roasted by Ron Jeremy and Peter North. His contribution solely consists of scowling at Chiles as he slumps in his chair.
Alan Hansen is the greatest culprit when it comes to sucking the life out of a match. He reminds me of Michael Douglas in Falling Down, except rather than embarking on a killing rampage provoked by a general dissatisfaction with life, he simply simmers and makes banal and morose comments. His melancholy and dour nature has an almost lobotomising effect.
The supporting cast and commentators arenât much better. Clive Tyldesleyâs spits out pop culture references with such regularity one could be forgiven for thinking he is sponsored by Heat Magazine. But what is even more galling is the Man United fanatic’s inability to get through a commentary without mentioning “that balmy evening at the Nou Camp in 1999..” His annoying chat must have been the reason for just 3.8 million people watching the final on ITV (compared to 18 million on BBC). Back in the studio, Marcel âI love Ghana so much I shunned them and played for France insteadâ? Desaillyâs celebrations are about as entertaining as clamidia. Emmanuel Adebayor talks with such rapidity I briefly thought I had hit fast-forward on my remote, and he was left red-faced when his mobile phone rang live on air.
There is also a worrying lack of ability to pronounce players names correctly (from Kagisho Dikgacoi to Xavi), though we were at least spared the misfortune of David Pleat, who is still trying to get his tongue around âPascal Chimbondaâ?.
A large portion of ITVâs coverage rests on the (rather broad) shoulders of James Corden, whose World Cup Live show is about as much fun as being redirected to meat spin. Watching Corden is a bit like being tied down to a chair as Michael Madsen dowses you in petrol and cuts your ear off to the sound of Stealers Wheelâs âStuck in the Middle With Youâ?. Only the soundtrack is Cordenâs high pitched and irritating laugh, and youâre pleading with Madsen to take the other ear too.
Amongst this myriad of clueless pundits there are (all too few) shining lights. Successful managers Roy Hodgson and Jürgen Klinsmann have offered not only an advanced knowledge of non-Premier League players, but keen tactical observations that are unparalleled by their peers. Clarence Seedorf is a pleasant, eloquent addition, while Danny Baker was a bundle of energetic vigour in his all too brief appearance.
The 2010 World Cup has produced little football of the highest quality, but there is no reason why the punditry should follow suit. In many ways, the respective studios of ITV and BBC have become a wasteland for former footballers who are either too inept to manage, or too illiterate to write for newspapers. Hopefully the outpouring of rage and criticism aimed at misers Townsend, Shearer & co. will prompt a much needed punditry purge.
