Question of Sport

I think I’m easily entertained. I’m happy to spend my time watching the chickens rotate at the rotisserie of my local Morrisons, listening to the delightful music on the sky guide or coming up with killer new passwords for my online accounts – ooh, I’ve just thought of a good-un! It’s safe to say I enjoy the simple pleasures in life. Like this beautiful Saturday evening for instance.

Nothing quite beats the combination of a glass of red wine – Co-Op’s own £3 Le Weekend, naturally – while watching the sun set. Perhaps it’s the litre of Le Weekend talking, but I’m feeling uncharacteristically happy. Ah, this is the good life.

Wait, what’s that melody? Oh, crap. No, it can’t be.

Oh, god. I despise that theme tune so much.

I was on the bus the other day, and horrific smells were emanating from many different, yet equally vile sources. Loud, obnoxious dance music blared out of the man next to me’s headphones and two terrifying looking 20-somethings sat at the front of the bus drummed along on their chairs to an impromptu rendition of an original number I’m assuming was called Twat, which consisted entirely of the word twat spoken at irregular intervals in a low, monotonous voice.

Well, given the choice of spending the rest of my life on that bus or watching one episode of Question of Sport – well, I’d probably choose to watch Question of Sport, actually. But begrudgingly.

In its current incarnation, the programme kind of feels like sport’s confusingly unfunny answer of Never Mind the Buzzcocks. It’s one of those rare shows that probably looks hilarious when your TV’s sound is turned off, but when you actually watch it, you discover that people are laughing, but no one’s actually saying anything funny. It may as well be broadcast in another language. It’s 30 minutes of Ally McCoist making noise. Oh, apart from the occasional sporting montage set to Geri Halliwell’s version of It’s Raining Men. What the hell is that!?

It’s also one of the few comedy panel shows where the contestants genuinely seem to care who’s winning. They actually want to win at Question of Sport. In fact, many of the jokes come from an unsettling rivalry between the two teams, which are each comprised of a captain and generally two vacuous, meat-headed sportsmen, who’s primary purpose on the show is to grin like they’re receiving blowjobs under the influence of valium and occasionally chuckle at Ally McCoist’s abstract sounds.

As I’m typing this, I’m being plagued by that awful theme tune. I simply can’t forget it. It makes the Mike and Angello theme tune seem like an exciting piece of music. How can such a boring piece of music leave such a lasting impression? Willingly listening to it almost feels like purposely attemping to induce a headache, which in some respects makes it quite amazing, although obviously it’s comletely awful.

I can see it was a mistake to run with this thought; I’m sad now. Perhaps more Le Weekend will flush the theme tune and Sue Barker’s face out of my head or eventually take me to drunken place where Question of Sport doesn’t exist.

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