Voices from past put our pompous prattlers to shame

[Cunny]

http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/sport/2006/12/..._our_pompo.html

 

Voices from past put our pompous prattlers to shame

 

The current generation of reporters and frontmen just aren't as good as Jim Rosenthal.

 

Michael HendersonDecember 12, 2006 12:30 AM

 

Ah, where are the snows of yesteryear? Those of us who grew up listening to Sports Report on Radio 2 (the old Radio 2, that is, not the trendy station that now acts as a minter of gold coins for ageing groovers) can only regret what has become of it.

 

The programme limps along, after a fashion, on Five Live, "Radio Mate" (make that Best Mate, since a cloying demotic chumminess is the predominant tone) but it's not the same. Nothing like. The nature of sport has changed so much in the past decade that winter Saturdays are but a pale shadow of what they used to be. The nature of the reporters has changed, too.

 

One of the most powerful childhood memories is of leaving a football ground on the final whistle (which sounded no later than 4.44pm, not 4.58pm, as it often does these days) and finding out how the other teams had got on.

 

Then, at 5pm sharp (not 5.03pm, as now, after yet another trip to the vowel-swallowing newsreader) that familiar tune would strike up - da-da, da-da - and Des Lynam or Jim Rosenthal would offer a brief summary of the day's notable events. Now the "headlines" can take a minute to read, and are so detailed that poor old James Alexander Gordon has only a few scores to fill in.

 

Then there are the men at the matches, the Jonathans and Arlos, with their pinched voices and limited vocabularies. Where are the successors to the old school? You know, the ones who were associated with specific parts of the country - Larry Canning in the Midlands, Bill Bothwell on Merseyside, George Bailey in the north-east, and Peter Lorenzo in London. All gone, like pea-soupers and brown ale.

 

Only one member of the old guard remains but Stuart Hall is no longer the force he was in the days when he could offer a paean to "Luigi Macari, the centaur-like scourge of indulgent defenders", or some such nonsense, and blithely ignore the fact that United's opponents had secured a rather good point ("in between, Coventry sneaked a couple of goals"). Hall is still at his post, making even the most miserable game sound half-decent, but he's surrounded by young men who neither understand nor appreciate his music hall patter.

 

So leave us oldies with our memories. In those days, and they really were the good old days, the identity of the featured commentary match would be withheld until 3pm, on the dot, when Peter Jones would reveal where he was, and where listeners could join him at 10 to four.

 

"Today we've come to north London, to the grand old stadium that has seen so many great days down the years, and will no doubt see a few more. Yes, this afternoon we are at Highbury, the home of the mighty Gunners, to see whether Arsenal can maintain their fine start to the season. Standing in their way is the formidable barrier that goes by the name of Liverpool, who will not relinquish their champions' crown without a fight. It promises to be a cracker."

 

Wonderful stuff! And it sounds even better now that we must put up with the relentless preening of Alan Green, who greeted listeners to Middlesbrough recently with the news that it was cold. "Why is it always so cold when I come up here?" Probably because it's late in the year, dear boy, and the ground is a goalie's punt from the North Sea. After Jones, the mellifluous Maurice Edelston, and the gentlemanly Bryon Butler, the pompous windbag is an acquired taste. Note that I. Always I, I, I. You're a reporter, Green, not a participant. Just tell us what happened, and leave yourself out of the tale.

 

It's not just the radio. How can we forget the telly troupers? The opera-loving Gerald Sinstadt (mind you, Ray Stubbs simply loves Richard Strauss) and the magnificent Brian Moore, for whom goalkeepers were forever "roaring" out of the area. And then there was the former thesp, Hugh Johns, usually to be found at Molineux, saying things like "yup, it's Mike Bailey, the Wolves number four".

 

Those men had a sense of a life beyond football. That, and a certain playfulness. When some unlikely soul clattered a goal from 30 yards at Goodison Park, Hall claimed he had scored with "insouciance". Really! Oh, look it up, Arlo. You'll find it under I. If you have any problems, ask Greeny.

[smithdown]

The opera-loving Gerald Sinstadt

 

 

And then there was the former thesp, Hugh Johns, usually to be found at Molineux, saying things like "yup, it's Mike Bailey, the Wolves number four".

 

 

 

 

Oh aye? It wasn't an opera house he got nicked in was it?

 

Always liked Hugh Johns though, made every midlands game sound weirdly intriguing.

[Herbie von Smalls]

http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/sport/2006/12/..._our_pompo.html

Wonderful stuff! And it sounds even better now that we must put up with the relentless preening of Alan Green, who greeted listeners to Middlesbrough recently with the news that it was cold. "Why is it always so cold when I come up here?" Probably because it's late in the year, dear boy, and the ground is a goalie's punt from the North Sea. After Jones, the mellifluous Maurice Edelston, and the gentlemanly Bryon Butler, the pompous windbag is an acquired taste. Note that I. Always I, I, I. You're a reporter, Green, not a participant. Just tell us what happened, and leave yourself out of the tale.

 

this paragraph has been posted already in the general, but i'd like to highlight it again and repeat my previous response

 

» Click to show Spoiler - click again to hide... «

:applause: :applause:

[matty]

This is a classic example of a Josimar.

[Bootle Buck]

Gerald Sidstadt, Hugh "There's a barney at the Baseball ground" Johns, Stuart Hall, Brian Moore, David Coleman were "classic" old footy commentators and reporters. They were voices you loved to hear on your way home from the match. That and Frank Bough on the teleprompter on Grandstand were a highlight of every weekend when I was a kid.

Edited December 13, 2006 by Bootle Buck