University has raped my body. Despite a concerted week-long effort in 2nd year, my previously lean, fit (read: weedy) bod hasn’t managed to escape the effects of 7 terms of treble vodkas and ill-judged Vikings, and I’m now the proud owner of a doughy little tyre. I dodge the guilt and shame of this defeat by blaming others: Mr Oki, Costcutter half price pizzas and organized religion, etc etc. Most importantly, I blame the BBC, for the way its insipid sports coverage completely fails to inspire me to get on my feet and be the Ryan Reynolds I know I can be.
Okay, so the one sport I actually watch is the ever-so-slight sedentary game of snooker, and by ‘watch it,’ I mean I watch the Masters, and by ‘watch the Masters,’ I mean I watch some of it. But the point stands, probably. The BBC have done well in having seemingly every major player of the past fifteen years installed on their chintzy sofas, punditing away like their careers depended on it (which they clearly do…) But, honestly, I couldn’t give two half-hearted shits, because as a team of commentators they have the combined charisma of a packet of soggy prawn cocktail crisps.
The problem begins with the ‘raffish’ Steve Davis, eight-times World Champion and utter douchebag, whose relentless personal anecdotes can make the most exhilarating 11th frame feel like a never-ending conversation with that one uncle with pretensions to one day featuring on TrueLad. The contagion then spreads to Hazel Irvine, in-jokey comedian par excellence, who has a rather unhealthy obsession with the INTERNET and EMAILS (they apparently revolutionized her life last week). The others fare little better. Stephen Hendry – pops his collar, prefers to say nothing. Ken Doherty – token Irishman, bit of a creep. John Parrott – improbably bad hair.
What snooker needs is a John Motson, or a Brian Moore, or some other famous commentator in some other sport I don’t care about. It needs a real personality, an insightful and inspiring go-getter who makes up for the crippling lack of star power shown by its players (witness: Mark Allen, who may one day kill my children). More importantly, it needs to inspire me to get my ass in gear, because my student loan pays for the BBC, and I’ll be dammed if I ever let this column end on anything but a self-obsessed note.