Grizzly Monster Bares His Claws
By Mark Daniell
22/06/2012
You’ve got to hand it to ITV, in one programme they’ve fulfilled all the criteria of modern television. They conjure up an insightful panel that simultaneously entertains you and makes you glad that you are you, and not them; they’ve designed a set that makes every homeowner in Britain feel tasteful; they’ve taught us that Prokofiev was Ukrainian, and that Polish puppets exist; and they’ve had the foresight to spot the one dud game of the tournament so far and put on, in its place, Murder, She Wrote.
I was torn: on the one hand a Euro quarter final, on the other, well, I needed to know about that oh-so-casual bookseller who was just that little bit too helpful with Jessica Fletcher’s enquiry. I’m pretty sure he was the murderer because his scenes would invariably end with a quirky, yet suggestive, clarinet toot. Quirky clarinet and murder, what’s not to love?
(By the way, how come Sheriff Tupper never cottoned on to old Jessica Fletcher herself? It seems every time she went on holiday, or to a dinner party, or watched a play, there was a murder. Not just a death, but a murder. After a while you’ve got to start looking at the common denominator. I mean, she’s not even a cop. She’s got no business there. That said, Tupper probably sussed that early doors and decided it was better to keep his trap shut and let the old psycho get on with it or he’d be next in line.)
Meanwhile, back on BBC1 we had a Mexican wave. In the whole game the Czech Republic managed the grand total of 0 attempts on target. Even when 6’5’’ Petr Cech decided to throw caution to the wind and lollop up front for a last minute corner, the ball floated harmlessly overhead. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Ronaldo’s grizzly monster celebration, my whole evening would have been wasted. WASTED! (Grizzly Monster and Frank the Tank (at 1.17 behind the manager). They know how to party in Portugal. As Cristiano said afterwards, “Big smiles and good musics!”)
Meanwhile, back in the UK, the BBC team looked like a bunch of boring farts droning on in someone’s front room. If ever a gathering needed a visit from Jessica Fletcher...
I’d never have thought that it would make any significant difference where a team of ex-footballers sat to waffle nonsense, but apparently it does. In one fell swoop, the beeb go from a packed, cheering stadium, where shattered dreams rub shoulders with big smiles and good musics, to a bunker where stuffy men debate rationing the loo paper. Also, there’s the nagging realisation that they’ve only seen what you’ve seen, because they’ve been watching it on TV too. Lee Dixon’s comment on the goal was that, when the cross comes in, Ronaldo’s “not even in the picture”. That’s not insight, that’s admitting you didn’t see anything. When I listen to commentary I like to pretend to myself that the commentator actually knows something. Otherwise I might as well be listening to myself.