TV Football Commentators

What is the point of TV commentators at football?

Football is both a very simple, and a very complex game.  You take 11 men, one ball, and force it into the opposition net.  Simple.  The variety of ways to complete the job is often far more complex, too complex say some, to score the vital goal.  We can avoid the cheating, fouling, greetin faced losers at this point.  

When football began to be followed on the wireless back in the 1930s the commentator, with a posh English middle class voice, relayed the fortunes of the teams in front of him to the masses.  This was acceptable as it was all that was available.  However, once the transistor radio became popular in the 1960s we soon realised that commentary at the game you were watching was behind the game, and often covering a game different from the one on front of you.  

So when TV caught up and games were watched by the millions everything changed.

In the early days only international and cup final matches were on TV, with a handful of occasional special matches.  Commentators in England, usually Kenneth Wolstenhome with a very English name, did not consider they required to shout from start to finish at the match.  Words flowed, but intending to enlighten the viewer.  The viewers' opinion was not asked for by the way.

Today all this has changed.  

The fact that so many games at league and national level are available has been a great benefit, usually.  However, with the increase of national games, the European Championship and World Cup for instance, and the need for friendly matches before each round of qualifiers, has led to many more games being televised. These are typically televised at great cost to the viewer.  It has also brought us commentators with limited vocabulary, knowledge of the game, and a desperate desire to be heard.

Is it not time for a change?

Early commentators on TV football used words sparingly, not counting the highlights programmes on Scotsports or Sportscene of course.  There they were only concerned for Rangers and Celtic, as indeed the still are.  Today the mouth must be constantly offering a none stop noise spewing out needless statistics, cliché, cliché, cliché, statistic, fabulous atmosphere, statistics, cliché, cliché, cliché, never resting to find a new word to replace the cliché words used so often before.  

Now the game is on TV, I realise half the time the director is watching someone in the stand, a player at the other end of the field from the ball, and a child drinking his lunch, rather than allowing us to actually see what is happening.  Then we realise the commentator, reading the programme for information rather than knowing the two teams involved, is blethering rubbish.  

Add to this the manufactured excitement at each goal, the screaming when a shot goes in, the fake joy and happiness at a victory.  Total fake, all off it.  Only when their team is involved can it be real, and that usually means internationals.  England commentators constantly mention 1966, the year the ball did not cross the line, and the crowd invaded the pitch to steal the game.  They also ensure every player with the slightest connection to an England side is mentioned, even if they were 'At Manchester United when 16,' and are now 34!  They forget, or ignore if they played at Scots, Welsh or Irish sides.  

Is it not time for change?

Let's remove the commentator.  Let us just watch the match for ourselves.  We do not require a dribbling idiot to spout his rubbish over a game, we do not require one at a game, why have one on TV?  A sensible, articulate ex-footballer who has played at the relevant level can be good.  Why not use two of them, of ex-player from each team to offer their opinions as the game progresses?  Their experience, their knowledge, and their time on the field in such games could be relevant.  The blethering commentator is not.

And as for the women put there because the TV companies are afraid of the harridans, show them where the local shopping centre is found, and remove them from the screen.

 

What think you Brian? 

 

Hot

There is nothing to say.

It is 29% c. that's 88 f.  And I canny be bothered to do anything but into space. Even the little chocolate in the house has been melting in the heat!

I have worked this week however, laundry, hoovering the house and the main stairs, and I was going to tend to the front of house but have lost the will to do it.  I had to await a box being delivered this morning.  By the time it arrived, and the driver worked out that the door he wanted was the one in front of him, not the one next door, the day for me was over.

Near naked people pass by, all awaiting burning skin tomorrow.  Few dogs are seen, all being kept in the shade.  Even the skateboarders have ceased their rolling back and forth.  

All this does not stop the constant flow of traffic to the supermarket, it is Friday after all and people have to fill up.  Car boots full of overpriced junk, alongside the stuff they really require, will speed past me tonight.  I say speed, but with many road works going on all week speed has not occurred on this road lately.  200 yards down the road the double mini roundabout was being repaired.  People sat for a long time as three major roads attempted to pass one single lane.  I could laugh, but supermarket shoppers could not.  Other routes are also suffering a variety of road works, so the traffic has not been happy.     

With all these lampposts bedecked by English flags you might expect this years World Cup to have encouraged the locals to put flags on their cars, houses and selves as they usually do.  The English are not doing this today.  Why is this?  Did the cheesy and needless flagshagging put them off?  Are fans ashamed to be associated with Reform?  Are they just sick off the sight of the flag?  I am!  Those at the game are wearing the flag, and fighting with one another as English fans do.  Boston will see a real change when England play there next week.  From thousands of lovable Scots, to drunken foul Englishmen, the change will be clear, and America will understand the UK better after this.

   

Roy Hattersley and Roger Cook

Roy Hattersley, 1932-2026, was a Labour politician first elected to Parliament in 1964, in the Birmingham Sparkbrook constituency.  Roy remained MP for the next 32 years.  

As a youth he became a socialist, keeping clear of Communist influences, and pushing a more normal socialist approach for the time.  

Hattersley was seen by some as a 'right-winger' in the party, he himself regarding the Tony Benn and his 'Bennites,'as the real reason Thatcher remained in office so long.  Once Tony Blair came to power however, Hattersley made it clear this was not the party he had joined and opposed much of the Blair governments thinking.  His support went to Gordon Brown.

As deputy leader under Neil Kinnock he shared the disappointment of losing an election and followed Kinnock into resigning his position.  All the while they had been fighting groups such as the middle class Militant Tendency, as well as Thatcher and Benn.  The far left destroying Labour more than Thatcher ever did.

It is strange to think that this man was considered to be 'off the right,' while today it is almost impossible to find someone 'off the Left,' in the Labour Party, and certainly not in the cabinet today.    The party that stood up for the people, equal rights, and ensuring human needs were met, now finds itself owned by Israel and billionaires unnamed.  Roy would be considered too far left to be a member of the party today.  Not so far left that he refused to become a Peer and join the House of Lords of course.

 

Roger Cook, 1943-2026.  A New Zealand journalist who became famous in the 80s and 90s by taking on crooks, both in government and crime, landlords and scam merchants.  Often leading to physical assault and severe pain.  His TV show 'The Cook Report,' which at one time had some 12 million viewers.  The ITV programme ended in 1999.

Those in our slum in Notting Hill were very interested in one programme.  Our aged and somewhat uncaring landlord sold out to a strange man.  Roger Cook then interviewed him on his programme.  I use the term his gentleman employed a Sikh driving a red coloured Rolls Royce, to head up his team of workmen.  Some were tolerable, but one or two caused us some grief, especially when awaiting wages and having been drinking for a while before this.  These were not pleasant men.  In this case the work was too much, the man, known for dealing roughly with tenants, cut his losses and ran.  A better landlord took over, and soon I was out here.  

Cook had ribs broken, run over by a car and he and his TV crew were abused and assaulted often.  This was shown in the 'Report.'  I wonder if a man like Cook would be allowed on national TV today?  He might upset too many important people, in the public eye, the police, and the criminal world.  Too many significant people would be in parliament getting upset.  

 

The Marches, Rory Stewart

This is a strange book.  At one time sloppy, and at another quite interesting.  Overall I am still not sure about it or what he got from his journey.  I read his book 'The places in between,' concerning his walk across Afghanistan, and I liked it.  This one, split into three parts, is different.

The book begins with Rory talking about his father.  When I first opened it I found it rather too much, the relationship at home was one I thought ought to remain at home.  As his father was 50 when he was born it meant he was well into his 30s and refers throughout the book to his 'daddy.'  Had my father lived that long, and I called him 'daddy' at that age he may well have been wondering about me.  He also never called me 'darling,' a term used for the females in the family.  It would have sounded odd when used of a son.  Now I know other people use such terms in this way, but it left me feeling somewhat queasy.  So, I dumped the book for some time until I was forced to see if it was as bad as I feared.  

The early part takes us on a walk along Hadrian's Wall, or what is left of it, time and the archaeologists have had their way upon it.  Father being in his 80s he tends to drive on to a meeting place where the two will join together to discuss what has been found.  Rory walks along the wall discussing the present state of its being, adding as much history as he can discover.  He then relates this to his own army experience and as a government employee in south Iraq, along with his fathers army and government work in Malaya and Hong Kong.    

Then we realise that neither were true Scots.  The father was born and bred in Scotland but once the war came his army experiences and later British government work 'for the Empire,' left a deep mark upon him.  Both have spent time working for 'The Queen,' both spent time abroad, rather that in Scotland, neither have much experience of 'the man in the street,'(a phrase banned by some) or daily life for most Scots.  This leaves the fathers' insistence on playing the Scot at all times leaving questions. He only offers visitors Scots food and whisky, made a big thing of Scots highland dancing, (Something demanded by the Black Watch when an officer), and wore the kilt or Scots apparel but really did not know who or what he was to his dying days in his 90s.  Something I reckon many Scots serving the Empire also felt.  Rory himself, living in Cumbria and for a time their member for parliament, shares similar lack of awareness of who and what he is.  This is a growing undercurrent throughout this book.

Rory walks along the wall, then in the second part wanders across what he calls the Middleland, the space between the wall and the Scottish border.   He talks to one and all, attempting to understand if they are Scot or English, and do they understand their history.  It seems to me the incomers to the area, and it is a somewhat bleak area, understand the history better than the locals, though the locals, few and far between, always appear disinterested, possibly because of Rory?

The third walk takes Rory from the borders up to Crieff where his fathers home lay.  

Along all the journey we have interesting historical details, comparing the present to the past, the changes to the land caused by agriculture or Monks, by military or weather, farmers or governments.  We learn that borders people in Scotland speak Scots, but apparently do not recognise the border as we do.  Those in England remain English.  Those living on the borders, where families spread across two sides, are often confused as to what they are.  

I think Rory is trying to work out if he is British or Scots, and finding no answer.  Living in Cumbria, where they are English, even though the border is just up the road, emphasises that he is English.  I think this is the problem for many of the 'Edinburgh and border' types who vote Conservative.  They wish to be Scots but have been educated as English, and their money is over the border.

All the while Rory continues to write and phone his 'daddy,' and discuss his findings.  He is keen to understand his fathers opinions, though these reflect those of an active man who worked for the Secret Service, often in dangerous places on behalf of 'the queen.'  His experience, compared to Roman soldiers on the Wall, his understanding of his son and shared experiences, are interesting, though at times I again consider much of what was written ought to have remained within the family. It is notable that his mother is rarely mentioned.   

I read through the book, and would recommend it anyone interested in the borders and walking in the rain.  Rory writes well and many good facts and questions to ponder come from the walk.  It's worth a read.

 

The People on the Road Outside

While watching the summer rain lash against my window, I pondered on all those people who once passed by my door.   Of course, I rarely spoke to them unless I happened to be leaving at the time, a mere nod of the head, a quick 'Good morning,' and we were on our way.  However, it was possible to note some who passed almost daily.  

One unsmiling lady has struggled up this road for 30 years.  Only recently has she been seen much less, though she passes unsmiling on Sunday, unsmiling, probably going to the Baptist Church.  I recall one miserable woman who appeared always ready to grumble about something, she stopped passing by some time ago.  A young lass, about 16ish, walked by, stomach exposed, for some time, always alone, and she stopped this around Covid time.  I suspect she was visiting grannie in the home up the road, a home that lost 7 in one go when Covid struck, I also suspect grannie was one of those.  As I left the house one day I noticed a grey car slow to a stop beside her.  A man of Asian/Mediterranean appearance left the passenger side and grabbed her by the arm.  She shook him off, and I stepped forward to be seen, and he returned to the car and his mate drove away.  She was unhurt, I think she was enjoying the attention but unwilling to accompany the man involved.  If I had a camera or a phone on me, I could have called the police, sadly none at the time.  They would probably have just kept going out of town, just in case.  

Not far from here is  home for men with mental difficulties.  They often pass by with their carers, sometimes one or two alone.  One walked into town almost daily, recognisable by his head, which constantly moved from side to side.  A youngish man, but not seen for some time.  An older man often passed by, always with a carer.  He stopped me one day and ranted about something unknown to me.  The poor carer was not just embarrassed, he did not know what to do.  I shook the man's hand, told him I agreed with him, and we parted happily enough.  The young male carer wondering what would happen next.  I would have loved to see him in the town centre shops.  This chap must have passed away some time ago.  One or two who passed by and passed on I do not miss.  They could cause trouble and were best avoided.  Others who sometimes spoke were the type I was glad to see, where are they now?    

With the supermarkets and town centre just up the road we have a lot of passersby during both day and night.  The night ones are usually quiet, though folks leaving the pubs late on can always be heard.  In days of yore they would leave pint glasses lying around, I managed to save two of them, and they are still in use.  Once they changed the closing times this ended however, people drift away in smaller numbers that way, loud gangs no longer steal the glasses.  

The number of people who have passed this house since it was begun in 1812 must run into hundreds of thousands.  Not bad for a small town, though obviously many were on repeat walks.  The Victorian days saw many buildings erected, a great many two up, and two down types.  These were often filled with farm labourers, vast numbers employed on farms back then.  Increasing wealth, and the development of two or three major businesses led to house building, often bought by those struggling on good wages for the day.  All great businesses of the past have now gone, the after the war effect.  

The thousands who passed this way during previous times, going back to and beyond the Romans who helpfully hardened the road to ease their marching, could make a good book.  Medieval travellers, Saxons, Normans, and long before them the early Britons who were forced out from their homes and into Wales.  This road stretches back at least 4000 years, possibly more, a path through the highly wooded county, seeking food, shelter, and possibly a safe place.  Before the Ice melted, it stopped under my house you know, it was possible to continue walking all the way into Europe.  The North Sea put paid to that, now it is Brexit that limits travel to the continent.  Times change. 

 

One of These Days...

 

The Fabric of Civilisation

This American lassie Virginia Postrel has written an excellent study into how textiles have made the world.  I must confess that I have not finished reading this book.  I may never do so, as my reason for  buying it, apart from the lassie in the Museum forcing it upon me, was I wished to understand how ancient people turned Flax into linen.

If you have nothing around you, why develop string?  How do you make string, or indeed anything else?  It appears someone around 20,000 or so years ago, decided that the inside of Flax stalks, when dried, are long thin reeds which can be moulded together.  Thus, an arrowhead can be attached to a rod for instance, and string, whatever it is made of, can be used to change life for everyone.  Let's face it, we all have string somewhere in the house.  The most basic of technology yet it changed the world for the better.

Virginia takes us through the development of threads, cotton, silk made from silk worms stolen from China, how very European that is. She discusses how cloth is woven in an intricate and yet highly mathematical manner, originally by uneducated Stone Age man.  Weaving soon became an art and an economic essential.  Trade in textiles of various makes soon spread across the world.  

I confess much of the information was beyond me, or too boring for me.  Much of the history of offer was and is worth reading in my mind, but I have little interest in weaving.  Interestingly, the local silk weavers, who died out during the 70s, were mostly men.  Reading this I realised just how skilful these weavers were, no wonder royalty came to the local Warner's Mill for their garb.

If you have an interest in weaving, cloth making, silk, cotton, and the history thereof I recommend this book.  You will not be disappointed.

 

It is Almost Here!

It won't be many weeks from now that Scotland, at around midnight, will begin the first game in this year's World Cup.  As always with Scotland cynicism strikes first.  However, we are there, and we may as well make the most of the opportunity.  What will happen?  Will we get through the section?  Will we score a goal?  These questions are being answered by many around the country, usually with absolutely no idea what they are talking about.  But that is football!

I am finding it hard to work up enthusiasm, age, other things in life, and too tired to care too often are hindering my desire.  Of course, I will react to the result, happy to win, sad to lose, angry at referees, angry at the various SFA suits at all levels looking after themselves, not the country.  It was ever thus.

The media attention does not inspire me, the usual quotes, questions, baloney, all go nowhere.  Only major news grabs attention such as a serious injury, or one of Donald Trump's ICE agents attempting to deport one of our players.  Already one non-Scottish player has had his visa refused because of a court case somewhere in Europe, also a Somali referee has had his visa refused.  I suspect many fans paying stupid money to see a game will find themselves banned from entry by the border guards.  Anyone objecting to the child rapist will be banned, and most Scots will have made their position on that clear to all already!   

During the 1974 World Cup, (was it held in Germany?) I was desperate to watch every game, even though I was working during the Yugoslav match.  I spent that game at a patients bedside scrubbing his table while we watched the game on the Black & White TV at the far end of the ward.  The table was never so clean again.  Another game I saw in Deacon Brodie's bar in the High Street.  I based myself at the far end and ensured I ordered my second pint just before half-time.  When half-time came all the men ahead of me, and it was all men, turned as one and reached out with their empty glasses towards the barmen.  How many pints were sold at half-time, two at a time possibly to avoid looking away from the game.  However, I canny mind who were playing that day.  I forget the third game, it was a long time ago.

Whatever happens, I just wish to be in a position where I can laugh at all these Englishmen here. 

 

Protein and Fibre!

I find it intriguing that these out of date pitta breads are informing me that they contain 'Protein and Fibre.'  It's almost as if we did not know this.  I mean man first started making versions of bread about 15,000 BC, until now he has not known bread contained protein!  How did we survive so long without knowing this?  

As you know, the Natufians, in places like Lebanon, Jordon, were making a form of bread from a paste made from a type of Barley.  This would be heated on stones and provided sustenance for hunter-gatherers.  Some began to harvest Rye and other cereals, thus bread baking began, yet not once did they cry "Protein!"  They just fed themselves are remained alive.  Mind you, I am not sure that we would survive the type of breads they were making.  However, my own version of flat bread, no longer suffered, would run them close.  Possibly I ought to have used stones rather than a frying pan?  

Cereals were slowly developed over the years, and in different places a variety of breads were to evolve.  I suspect many would be healthier than the mass produced stuff avialble in supermarkets.  Refined flour, additives, and chemicals do not make for pure bread.  There again at my age I no longer care.  If I am hungry, just feed me, any muck will do.in.  To prove this, I am about to eat those with two out of date, reduced price sausages of unknown origin. Out of date rabbits lettuce will accompany this.

I think I may need Spanish Brandy afterwards...