I’ve had quite a response to comments I made in this column a few weeks ago about the idea of a commentator-free option on television sports broadcasts. In quite enthusiastic concurrence, quite a few Supersport viewers I’ve heard from would welcome such an optional channel.
Tennis is an excellent example of a sport that needs little or no commentary. The current and copious Supersport Wimbledon coverage uses various commentators who, in the opinion of many viewers, contribute little but unnecessary chatter to their enjoyment of the matches. The worst example ever of the rambling intrusions of a tennis commentator was, of course, the appalling SABC commentator, Bob Hewitt, who used to turn the matches at Wimbledon into personal tennis clinics.
Inquiries I’ve made reveal that, in some cases, there would be extra cost to Supersport if it broadcasts extra sports coverage without commentary. Though Supersport does have access to seven satellite channels, the use of these is subject to control.
Not all the feeds are ‘splittable”. Some come with commentary firmly attached. Notwithstanding cost, it would be technical child’s play for Supersport to take an extra feed from, say, Wimbledon, the so-called ‘international sound”, which is the aural background of a tennis match, the court atmosphere, the umpire’s calls, clapping, the tennis itself. Viewers would be given the option of watching with or without commentary. No commentators would lose their jobs and those viewers who want all the statistics and analysis would not be denied them.
I have had an interesting chat with Heinrich Enslin, head of Supersport, who did not dismiss the idea out of hand. He did, however, have reservations that it might be a bit of a gimmick, like the recent idea where one camera followed only the actions of a single star player in a football match. That idea died a quick and painless death. What is encouraging was his undertaking to give the idea of commentary-free coverage a deal of thought.
It’s interesting to wonder which televised sports would be able to carry themselves on television. All sport may be watched live, at actual venues, without commentary. Something like grand prix motor racing needs its commentary, but do rugby and soccer to the real enthusiast?
And now to another subject. Those who read the bristling 12 pages that constitute The Sunday Independent might have taken in last weekend’s leader page column, The Diary, written by a certain Karen Bliksem. It was dedicated to a full-frontal attack on myself and Sunday Times columnist David Bullard, and written in passionate defence of one Darrel Bristow-Bovey. According to Bliksem, Bullard and I are decidedly third-rate charlatans. I write for some ‘Auckland Park weekly newspaper”, I’m bewildered by my giant ego, fascinated by my anus. Bullard does not deserve to lick Stephen Mulholland’s boots and we’re both deeply envious of Darrel’s talent.
I’ve nothing to say about the opinions published last Sunday. There are, nonetheless, one or two things to be said about the true origins of the article. As most people suspect, Karen Bliksem does not exist. The column under that fictitious name is what could best be described as a journalistic drag-act. Bliksem’s column has always been written by males. For the past three or four years, donning the falsies, lipstick and stretch-pants each week has been one Jeremy Gordin. He is Karen Bliksem.
When he’s not being Karen, Gordin works full-time for The Sunday Independent where, after a long and varied career in journalism, he’s at last reached his peak. Gordin’s job is what’s known as a copy taster, an editorial calling that could be described as a journalistic bilge pump. In Gordin’s case this involves trawling the overseas press for material that can be reproduced for next-to-nothing syndication fees, if for any fees at all. International press agencies are a bit like supermarkets in the way they get of rid of their perishable goods. When all the unsold meat, fish and vegetables go stale or rotten, the supermarkets go into charitable mode and hand them out the back doors to zoos, passing bag ladies and the dog pound. The Sunday Dispatch‘s supplement is about 90% composed of material gleaned in this way. So, Gordin’s not only Karen Bliksem, he’s The Sunday Independent‘s bag lady as well.
All that really needs to be said in reply to his engaging comments about Bullard and myself is quite simple: how courageous it is of Gordin to snipe at people while cowering behind a pseudonym. Whatever our shortcomings, Bullard and I at least do our carving and mangling under our own names. Even Darrel Bristow-Bovey carefully attaches his own name to whatever he writes.
In one of his more elegant metaphors, Gordin wrote that my and Bullard’s shocked reaction to the plagiarism scandal surrounding his valued colleague was like two Victorian virgins stumbling into a brothel.
You’re dead right, Jeremy. David and I definitely stumbled into a whorehouse. At least we don’t pimp for it.
Archive: Previous columns by Robert Kirby