Different Strokes

That's Carlton Palmer in the middle

Anybody with a passing interest in pop music knows that one of the 'gimmes' of manufactured bands is that you must have one member who is, ahem, cosmetically challenged - this is so the ugly boys and girls out there can have somebody they can aspire to. The Monkees had Peter Tork, Take That had Gary Barlow, which was a shame because he was the only one with any real talent, the Bay City Rollers had that gormless blonde bloke on guitar and current top girl band Girls Aloud have the red head who was recently described on the text version of TMS as having the face of somebody who had been apple bobbing in a deep fat fryer (who said the BBC liked to sit on the fence!).

Anyway, as it is with music so it is with football programmes. You have to cater for the whole spectrum of viewers intelligence, from those who believe the words of Albert Camus who said, "All that I know of Morality and obligations I owe to football” through to those who aspire to the level of intelligence displayed by the ex Aston Villa midfielder Mark Draper who once said, "'I'd like to play for an Italian club, like Barcelona."

The BBC have Alan Hansen and Alan Shearer for their broadsheet reading viewers, whilst Ian Wright pops up from time to time to give the Daily Mirror readers somebody to relate to. Mark Lawrenson and Gary Lineker are there for the Daily Mail and Daily Express readers, they represent the virtues of hardwork over natural talent, the willingess to travel wherever the work demands and the desire to criticise anybody in authority at every opportunity.

On BBCi there is Carlton Palmer, a man George Best once said could trap a ball further than he could pass it and Garth Crooks. Watching Carlton Plamer and Garth Crooks on the same sofa is like watching two bald men fight over a bottle of Head and Shoulders, it's fun for a few minutes but ultimately a pointless exercise for all involved. Garth Crooks doesn't talk in sentences he talks in riddles, he must be the love child of Stuart Hall and the Reverend Spooner (not to be confused with DJ Spoony who is another of the BBC's pandering to the inhabitants of Stupidville). Garth takes so long pontificating over the simplest sentences that I fully expect him to begin one of his goal announcements with, "My first is in Gun, but not in ammunition." Ray Stubbs watches over all of this with the calm air of a man who is glad he didn't make it as a footballer, having seen the damage that heading all those old fashioned footballs has done to the brains of his colleagues.

On Sunday night there is Adrian Chiles on MOTD2 - a man who has shown devotion above and beyond the call of duty when it comes to being crap on any television programme he gets near. Chiles is football's Justin Timberlake, he's everywhere and yet you can't quite see the point of him in the first place.

Sky's matchday programmes are fronted by Richard Keys, with Andy Gray, Martin Tyler and Jamie Redknapp. This is football's equivalent of The Beatles with Jamie in the Ringo role, you know he's not the best around but he's honest, has a silly haircut and gives 110% every time which is all you can ask of anybody really.

The jewel in Sky's navel is however on Saturday afternoons from August through to May: Gillette Soccer Saturday. Twenty years ago the idea of a five hour programme based around four ex-pros sitting in a studio watching matches on a small screen whilst score updates pass before your eyes would have had the producers of Grandstand pointing you in the direction of the funny farm. Mind you, back then if you had mentioned to the BBC that in twenty years time the only sport they would be able to show on a Saturday afternoon would be presented by a lesbian and a high pitched dwarf standing on an orange box you would have been given directions to the same funny farm.

The programme is a wonderful example of evolution - both of the modern footballer and mankind itself. There are basically three stages of evolution with Jeff Stelling in the role of Darwin (or Lord Reith if you prefer):

Commentatus Erectus (fully formed analysis, able to stand on two legs and making perfectly coherent noises) are Matt Le Tissier, Phil Thompson, Tony Gale and Charlie Nicholas. They commentate and assess in the same way they played the game, with minimum fuss, concise, accurate and they don't expel energy when not required so to do.

Commentatus Haunchus (on his haunches, making the occasional intelligent comment but flapping his arms violently to attract attention) are Chris Kamara and Alan Mcanally. These two hustle and bustle all over the screen, they use fifty words when ten would do.

Then we have Mudskippus Mersus. Swamp dwelling, lager drinking, unable to make any sense whatsoever ex-Arsenal, Walsall, Portsmouth and England forward. Mudskippus Mersus is there for the viewer who has trouble reading the Daily Sport, the sort of person who pronounces the number between two and four as free and who thinks that Aperitif is what a Cockney calls his dentures. Merse once said on national television, during coverage of the England defeat against Croatia, " Too many players looked like fish on trees." This of course led to confusion among football commentator watchers. Was Merse cleverer than we had thus far suspected? Was this thinking along the lines of the philosopher Hegel and he, Merson, believed that the players had become increasingly conscious of their intrinsic value and had, metaphorically, retreated to the trees for comfort, or was he just pissed?

Merson was, in the understated words of Harry Redknapp, a world class player, unfortunately when it comes to football analysis he is closer to Sharron Davies than he is to Barry Davies.