Tuesday, 25 January 2011
The last word
It won't be the last word, obviously, but that's the name of a show fronted by Andy Gray and his trained chimp. Plus it's this blog's last word on the subject.
So, what they said was pretty retarded. No one needs to point out how rude and wrongheaded the content is (although an awful lot of people are doing just that).
But, listen to how they said it. Listen to their tone: joyless, mean and weary. Maybe they're bored with each other, with themselves, with the crushing, banal predictability of their own opinions.
Maybe they're a couple of characters by Beckett. In which case, stick them in a bin (that's the sort of allusion you're simply not going to get at triffictottenham.co.uk)
What they should be are characters created by Harry and Paul. I mean, that was a perfect parody of a couple of mock Tudor cunts. The last line, 'Do me a favour, love' – priceless. It only becomes tragic when you realise they have no idea. If comedy is tragedy plus time, then tragedy is comedy plus clueless cunts.
And a woman in football, hmmm, what could we immediately bang on about... I know! The offside rule! Hilarious. But they weren't joking, they weren't parodying. They were talking. They were expressing actual opinions with their actual mouths.
When Liverpool scored their opening goal, I thought it was offside. When the camera cut to Sian Massey, my heart sank a little, just because I thought the jocks (overtly masculine sporty types, not a racial slur) at Sky would make some pathetic jibe about her ability. Or want to, at least.
So, when replays proved it was onside and a really good call, I was pleased for her. Andy Gray, however, didn't say a word. And I actually said to my wife (who I'd let watch the game as a special treat for washing up so brilliantly that lunchtime): He could at least have given her some credit for that. He'd have been quick enough to give her some stick and bang on about how it was 'unacceptable in a big game like this' if she'd been wrong, the haggis munching cunt (racial slur, not nasty weird food lover).
Now I suspect his silence simply betrayed his disappointment. Shall I say like Hitler watching Jessie Owens at the Berlin Olympics? No, I think I'll leave it.
And also in that tone you can hear everything you need to know (and everything you always suspected) about the atmosphere within the Gray/Keys section of the Sky Sports office (or, on Monday nights, spaceship): bullying, boorish, blokeish. Not simply masculine or genuinely tough, they essentially sit on comfy chairs talking about stuff, remember. They are, God help us, our Loose Women - only ugly and stupid. Oh stop it.
Their working world is a grim mono culture of ism upon ism, where to be a slightly different white, middle-aged man, one who uses the word 'arriviste' or 'onomatopoeia', for instance is to risk ostracism (a word which, in itself, risks a wedgy), and where to be a young woman who wants to do slightly more than read from an autocue whilst dressed like a hopeful starlet on The Only Way Is Essex risks the full ire of Stadler and Waldorf's less charming modern day equivalents.
The last word's last word: I bet you 20 Spurs points (worth 30 on the open market), that both men have massive fuck off extensions of which they are inordinately proud.