TV VIEW:IT WAS a week during which snooker's "bad boy" Ronnie O'Sullivan suggested Simon Cowell might be asked to invest some of his crowd-pulling capabilities into boosting snooker's viewing figures. Sex it up, if you like, sprinkle a little of Cowell's X-Factor magic which has turned weeping, crawling mediocrity into solid-gold ratings: and with gratuitously rank bad manners thrown in for good measure.
The subtext to O’Sullivan’s comments was a reality that struck most of us long, long ago about snooker – it’s a bit borin’, innit? The physical reality of a snooker match on telly sends most viewers into a somnolent lurch towards something high to jump off of.
Sure, there is a lot of skill involved in slapping those balls around in the appropriate direction, but there’s a lot of skill involved in weaving a basket, too, and hours of afternoon telly aren’t devoted to that.
It’s easy to see, though, why the BBC still devotes coverage to the sport which last week had the Masters at Wembley. For the Beeb it’s a no-brainer: hours of filler with a minimum of expense. Just point a camera at Rocket Ronnie and get Denis Taylor to breathe all over him.
There is also the memory of that golden age in the 1980s when lack of alternatives turned snooker into TV gold. Such was the time and coverage given to it that a plethora of strong and definable personalities entered the public consciousness. Alex Higgins’ feral unpredictability had its perfect cartoon rival in Steve “Interesting” Davis. For a faintly sinister copper like Ray Reardon, there was a coke-snorting tearaway like Kirk Stephens.
It just shows the power of snooker then that an obscure Canuck like Stephens is still remembered: must be the shoes.
But the contrast to snooker now couldn’t have been clearer if you dipped into almost any of the Masters coverage last week. A quarter-final featured Stephen Maguire against Neil Anderson. The standard of play was startlingly high and the level of tedium even more so. It was hard to care. In terms of charisma, both players could have been swapped halfway through and the casual viewer would hardly have noticed. Maguire looked like any other bullet-headed hot-shot you’d see in a pool room, and Robinson had that highlighted bird’s-nest spiky thatch that nowadays passes for individuality. Oh for a little of Reardon’s hair grease.
Mind you, the commentary hardly helped.
Steve Davis, in the studio, entered into a long explanation on the theory of planting a ball. Mostly, he said, it was more a case of chancing your arm rather than skill. Then Taylor ran with the idea, remembering Cliff Thorburn – who apparently liked a plant now and again. “He was the Percy Thrower of the game,” chortled Taylor, before running up a blind alley with his horticultural riff. “The number of plants at the Masters when I was playing, you never backed into your seat,” he rambled, “you always turned around in case you crashed into one.”
It was like watching Last of the Summer Wine, but without the tension.
Of course the clash of technical proficiency and personal blandness is not unique to snooker. During Pete Sampras’ reign, he frequently had to remind everyone he was paid to play, not put on the kind of sad pantomime that seniors tennis is sometimes wincingly reduced to.
But, even at its most anonymous, tennis contains the sort of action and movement that is impossible in snooker. That puts even more focus on personality, which puts snooker into that terrible chicken-and-egg dilemma: to develop characters, the game needs coverage, but to get coverage, TV demands characters. It’s hard to escape the conclusion that, if approached, Mr Cowell will hitch his strides even higher – and run.
But at least the snooker was live. The alternative is watching highlights, but it just isn’t the same as live TV.
George Hook looked like he wouldn’t have minded downing a large gin and tonic when he and Conor O’Shea tucked into Friday night’s highlights of Munster and Sale on RTÉ 2. Since the programme sailed through midnight and beyond, a GT did seem more appropriate than analysing a rugby match.
At least it might have taken some of the glare from Tom McGurk’s pink shirt.
Nothing, though, could dilute the hysteria from Ryle Nugent’s commentary.
A rule of thumb for most commentators is to pace themselves. Start slow and build. Ryle is from a different school. He takes a running start and flings himself headlong into it.
You’re left to wonder what will be left for the high notes when something of note actually happens, but somehow Ryle manages to cope, even if it means at times only dogs padding around Thomond Park were able to understand his pitch. However, certain rules of thumb are eternal.
“Sale will be thinking that, for all Munster’s intensity, they are only six points behind,” Ryle opined at the start of the second half.
A split second later David Wallace crashed over for a try. Proof that no matter how prescient a pose the commentator might adopt, the game will always turn and deliver a swift kick of retribution. It’s just a pity those unwilling or unable to pay Rupert Murdoch for the privilege couldn’t watch it in real time.
