At Aintree we were after expert analysis and a sense of drama, but Auntie Beeb let down sports fans big-time, says Derek McGovern.
‘I say, I say, I say, do you know what’s the secret of good comedy?’
‘No, please tell me, what is the….’
‘Timing.’
It’s one of the oldest jokes, but has stood the test of time because of its sheer brilliance. People win Nobel prizes for inventing microwaves, cloning sheep and other boffiny-type paraphernalia, but the man who invented that joke – and it’s got to be a man because women just aren’t funny, unless they’re riding Grand National second favourites – has quite disgracefully never been similarly honoured.
I bring this up because the BBC’s timing on the biggest sporting weekend of the year was an absolute joke.
The Greatest Golf Shot The World Has Ever Seen happened slap-bang in the heart of the Beeb’s watch over the closing holes of the US Masters. I’m talking about the Tiger Woods chip on the 70th hole – the one that started out heading in the direction of New Orleans before turning sharp right towards Illinois and then waited at the mouth of the cup for a round of applause before doffing its cap and falling in theatrically.
Shut it, Donald!
It was a sporting moment that will be replayed forever; one that demanded suitably awestruck tones from the Beeb commentary team. But when Tiger’s chip defied the laws of physics and changed the face of the 69th Masters, anchorman Steve Rider was questioning England’s Luke Donald about his round.
I’m sure Donald had some very interesting things to say, but I didn’t want to hear them right then. Rider has been around longer than the Ryder Cup – doesn’t he have methods to stop an interviewee mid-answer, like a boot in the bollocks? How is it other men can stop their wives mid-sentence with a simple wave of the hand if a penalty is about to be taken, but Rider couldn’t tell Donald to shut the duck up?
A day earlier, Irish training legend Paddy Mullins told us that Hedgehunter was a Grand National certainty and that even-money was a more accurate refl ection of its Aintree chances than 7/1. Given a clear round, defeat was out of the question, he went on.
For the watching millions, though, there was a big snag. Mullins was interviewed after the race. For God’s sake, here was manna from heaven for punters. One of the greatest trainers ever to have walked the earth telling us that a horse was an absolute certainty for the Grand National, but the Beeb deemed him worthy of an interview only after the bloody thing had gone and won. It’s like being told by her mate that the gorgeous bird you were too timid to make a move on the night before was absolutely gagging for it. Agonies come no greater.
Actually, they do if you’re Tony McCoy. I don’t know what McCoy has done to upset the gods of Liverpool, but he couldn’t be more harshly treated there if he was the love-child of Alex Ferguson and Boris Johnson. The man is jinxed. Every time he has found himself up shit creek, there has never been a paddle anywhere within a square mile.
If the most horrid words in golf are ‘it’s still your turn’, the most grotesque at Aintree are ‘loose horses’, narrowly relegating ‘Angus Loughran’ into second spot. There was something inevitable about McCoy’s collision aboard Clan Royal with those forlorn, riderless animals. I’m convinced those two loose horses knew what they were doing. There was something too rehearsed about their movements. They toyed with Clan Royal. They worried him. They harried him. They bullied him. And then, at Becher’s, they went in for the kill like two Soviet bogeys stalking a US Top Gun jet. No one will convince me they weren’t on Hedgehunter’s payroll.
Royally pissed off
The Clan Royal incident was the moment that shaped the National. However, again, the BBC’s timing stunk the place out. Do you know how long we had to wait for a re-run of one of the most dramatic National manoeuvres ever? Forty-five sodding minutes. We saw every step of the lead-in to the winners’ enclosure, we heard from every possible figure connected with the horse, but we were deprived of a re-run of the Clan Royal fiasco until five minutes before Dr Who started. Now there’s a time-lord who knows something about timing…
There were plenty of other irritations about the BBC’s Grand National coverage.
– Why was no one brave enough to question the unambitious ride Carrie Ford gave well-backed Forest Gunner? Please don’t call me a chauvinist – the only thing worse than a chauvinist is a woman who won’t do as she’s told – but surely Forest Gunner’s chances would have been greatly increased by a top (male) jockey on board.
– And where was the in-depth betting analysis? This is the biggest betting race of the year, with bookies offering a squillion different markets, but none were touched on.
– Did we really need the interviews with Gloria Hunniford and Cilla Black, whose teeth protruded so much that at any minute you expected a rug to be thrown over her?
– And can someone please shoot the next owner who says he is not worried about the result, he just wants horse and rider to come back safely. If you’re that concerned, don’t bloody run the thing.
