There is only so much news, so much tech or rider palmarès to go through before those commentators who work ‘from the page’ run out of material. A stage guided by a research monkey will be as dry as a cracker. When all material has gone, they finally default to interviewing the colour commentator, usually an ex-pro. This is known in the trade as ‘passing the mike’ or indeed ‘taking the mike’. And so it all starts to draaaaag. It’s porridge. Time, then, for a scoop of Tutti-Frutti. Some tasty colour.
Encyclopaedia Carltonica
11.25 a.m. The peloton has settled into the relative amble of a mass tap. This is not a protest. The break has formed and gone. It suits everyone. They might be allowed a gap of, say, 11 minutes’ temptation time on the peloton, just so the underdogs believe there’s a chance of survival. Everyone back in the pack is happy. It’s a day for the quick men so, for everyone else, it’s simply a task of getting through the stage and letting the rockets loose at the end. No panic yet. And no action until the end.
Around now, the viewer begins to be shown the familiar magnificence of France. The director is a guy called Jammo, short for Jean Maurice. He’s been doing this since his hair was black. His considerable locks are now white as snow, just like his reputation. He is a genius. Jammo, or Monsieur Confiture as he’s known among the Brits, starts to paint the day with sumptuous shots. Some are live and some ‘in the can’. As he weaves his magical interludes away from the gently cruising riders, we get reminded why this is the greatest theatre for a bike race on the planet. France is simply gorgeous. Even when it’s dodgy, like Brest or Lens, it’s still gorgeous.
But pictures are not enough. Hours of mountains, beaches, lakes, chateaux, vineyards, notable landmarks and so on, they need a guide. This is when commentators really earn their crust. Anyone can call a dramatic mountain finish with the field spread out in a battle of attrition to the top. But this is not that day. A Mogadon day needs waking up. Hello!?
Luckily, I have a memory that’s a lexicon of facts, figures, images and stories that I’ve built up over the years. How extensive this library is, I have no idea. You see, I don’t ever throw away a memory. Everything is in there. I am always reminding people of what they have done.
‘How the hell do you remember that?’ they say.
‘Well, I have no idea to be honest. But I never forget a thing.’
That’s not to say my memories are in any kind of order. There is no filing system. It’s an emporium in there and it’s easy to open a drawer that has been closed for decades. Up pops a thought or a tale that even I am happily surprised to find. And it could be anything. The slightest trigger will set me off. Honestly, even when I’m not broadcasting I’m often asked: ‘What are you smiling at?’ I’m simply busy chuckling to myself as another random page of this crazy life’s diary is recovered for my own amusement. It’s fun to go for a rummage around in there. I do it all the time. And sometimes, particularly on quiet days, I take the audience with me. And so it is that the commentary can become a bit random as the Encyclopaedia Carltonica is opened up.
It’s an absolute mishmash of information, from crop rotation and farming methods to roof tile manufacturing, both ancient and modern, in south-west France. Grape varieties, sausage production, the healthy properties of zinc worktops – all this and more alongside anthropological studies of South Pacific islanders and an extensive knowledge of cloud formations and the prevailing winds of the Mediterranean. It can be medicinal, commercial, poetic, historic – and sometimes all of these things.
‘Brian, did you know that the monks who produce the Benedictine Liqueur never actually get to taste it? And that their biggest market as measured per head of population is actually Hartlepool? A Hot Benny has been hugely popular there since troops returning from the First World War, who had been billeted in the monastery, came home with the stuff. Pubs add warm water to it to make a winter hot toddy.’
To which Brian Smith, twice British Champion, will simply say, ‘Er, no. I didn’t know that’, in his soft Paisley accent.
There are, of course, guides to help out the less anecdotally loaded. Such lexicons will tell you that: ‘The thimble of Belafonte is the smallest to be found in the Loire valley.’ This is small beans. While one commentator might pitch for this as a filler, I will be busy regaling the viewer with the rudiments of manufacturing gaufrettes as we pass a biscuit factory.
‘I drove a forklift there as a summer job back in the mid 1970s. I really did, Biscuiterie Rouger in La-Haye-du-Puits. Bernard Hinault was on the telly in the canteen. Naturally. My pal, Mark, ordered whelks and asked me for advice on a rather black one he’d just curled out of its shell. I said I had no idea but added that they are usually green. With a ho-hum shrug, he went for it and ended up in hospital . . . Er, you still with us, Sean?’
‘It’s like bringing a catapult to a nuclear war.’
A Tough Night at a Cycling Club
As a result of my verbal meanderings, I’ve gained myself a bit of a reputation
