‘Do you know what annoys me about your sort?’ he said. ‘You commentators. We pass by all these chateaux and all this wonderful landscape and scenery and you never mention them.’
‘Are you an ITV viewer?’ I asked him.
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, we’ve got nothing to say to each other. Because that’s my stock in trade. I am famous for going off-piste. If I did it any more, I’d be a tourist guide.’
He wouldn’t let go: ‘You see, there is so much to talk about regarding the scenery and so on.’
‘I KNOW THERE IS,’ I said, my volume rising slightly as I made allowance for what I assumed must be deafness rather than simple bloody-mindedness. ‘THAT’S WHAT I DO, YOU SEE. YOU ARE CLEARLY WATCHING SOMEONE ELSE. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’
‘Well it’s just not good enough . . .’ Etc, etc.
A friend of mine once decided to make a documentary featuring people over 100 years old. He said it was so depressing. Rather than offering up jolly reminiscences of a long life, they were all simply the most miserable curmudgeons he could imagine. Basically, they complained about everything. Nothing in their lives was either good enough or as good as it used to be. Well, wake up, Grandad, there is more cycling on telly than there has ever been and my job is to keep it lively.
‘IF YOU ARE WATCHING SOMEONE ELSE, I CAN TAKE NO RESPONSIBILITY,’ I added. I think I then said ‘git’ under my breath.
‘What did you just call me?’
Clearly his hearing worked just fine when it suited him.
‘YOU ARE CLEARLY NOT WATCHING E – U – R – O – F – S – P – O – R – T.’
‘There’s no F in Eurosport!’
‘PRECISELY! NO EFFING EUROSPORT, AND I SUGGEST YOU SUBSCRIBE.’
Time to go home.
The Man with the Golden Microphone
If it’s an action-packed day, especially a mountain stage, then our job becomes somewhat easier. That’s because, believe it or not, we know what we’re talking about. Well, most commentators do. Not all, though. And if one is prepared to wade in to a sport where the home audience is generally rather knowledgeable, then . . . oh dear!
I knew a certain Dutch commentator who claimed that he had once been awarded the highly coveted and, as far as I know, entirely fictional prize of The Golden Microphone for his supposedly excellent sports commentary in the Netherlands. Somehow he’d ended up at Eurosport and he was renowned for being the most appalling commentator – it didn’t matter what it was, from football or tennis to speed skating or beach volleyball, he was hopeless. Why was he there? Schmooze. He was an amazing schmoozer. He wined and dined at the finest restaurants and his guests were the main men at the top of the organisation. He was even one of the select few who sailed the company yacht. Yes, that’s right. The yacht. Eurosport was owned largely by TF1, the equivalent of ITV in the UK. France being an apparently proletarian republic and TF1 surviving with a good deal of public help, everything within the organisation was to be shared equally. Equally among those who knew, obviously. This yacht was virtually Top Secret. There was no application process for access to enjoy its decks, either bobbing in Nice harbour or out at sea. No, this was a secret shared among the elite. And our friend was one of those.
One sport after another fell by the wayside as producers came to realise that the new boy was not up to scratch in any way save for bravado, gold teeth (of which he had plenty), and a rather liquorice voice that had got him through the door in the first place.
One day it was the turn of cycling to welcome our friend to the microphone. And what a day it was. The Queen stage – the hardest, most demanding stage of the tour and therefore the most prestigious. The regular commentator was down after a dodgy andouillette for lunch out on the course. This meant that our friend would voice the day remotely, from the Paris hub studio.
For what follows, let’s call our friend GM, in honour of his award.
The conversation went something like this:
‘GM, do you know anything about cycling? We’re desperate for a commentator on today’s big Tour de France stage, can you do it?’
‘Of course I can. I didn’t win the Golden Microphone for nothing, you know.’
‘Okay. So it’s the Queen stage, the most important of the whole Tour de France. You obviously know that this is the big one, the decider. Now, are you sure you can get up to speed with this iconic day and all the history attached? Do you understand how important this is?’
‘The Queen stage. Well, yes, of course that’s not a problem. Just leave it to me. I’ll be absolutely fine. I am, after all, the winner of the Golden Microphone.’
If Mont Ventoux did get mentioned, it was perhaps lost in the panic. But surely everyone knew what was to come; GM was as confident as ever. And so the day began.
To be fair, GM acquitted himself satisfactorily for the first few uneventful opening parts of the stage. As they approached Mont Ventoux, even he was able to pick up on the rising tension and stress within the peloton as riders vied for a good place at the front of the pack. The mighty climb loomed over them and they began to tackle the lower slopes that are hemmed in by trees before it opens up into the famous lunar landscape that
