Compact Fluorescent Lamps (CFLs) may be good for the environment, but there's nothing wrong with some old-fashioned light bulb humor:
"How many editors does it take to change a light bulb?
Two. One to change the bulb and the other to send out a rejection slip to the old bulb!"
A more topical variation would be: "How many BBC commentators does it take to cover one rugby union international?" The answer, it would appear, is roughly one reporter/pundit/presenter for every pair of England players on the pitch. At Twickenham on Sunday the BBC decided to ring the changes on that other old gag about the Englishman, the Irishman and the Scotsman. Smooth-talking front man John Inverdale was instead joined by an Englishman (Jeremy Guscott), a Welshman (Jonathan Davies) and a Scotsman (Andy Nicol).
Up in the commentary box was part-time tennis commentator Andrew Cotter, with the perpetually grumpy Brian Moore as his sidekick. Meanwhile, blonde bombshell Jill Douglas was pitch-side with the hunk of manhood that is former England captain Lawrence Dallaglio—Lorenzo Bruno Nero Dallaglio, to give him his full name.
I must admit that I missed the beginning of the match, which England won 22-16, so there may have been even more experts secreted about the ground. Perhaps there was a celebrity hunter being paid to spy on Zara Phillips, the fun-loving Royal fiancée of current England captain Mike Tindall. Someone obviously had an eye on Hugh Grant, because he was lured into the commentary box at halftime for a little chat with Cotter. But in these days of universal austerity and a frozen BBC licence fee, do we really need quite so many experts to guide us through one 80-minute rugby match between "auld enemies" England and Scotland?
Sports coverage has to strike a balance between providing technical analysis for the die-hard fans and allowing casual viewers to enjoy the atmosphere—or razzmatazz—of a big event. Unfortunately, those who manage BBC Sport are so lacking in any sense of proportion that they've forgotten that quality and not quantity is what really matters.
Many of the great names I remember from my youthful days of watching sport have either been pensioned off or taken their mellifluous tones to that great commentary box in the sky. Only last year, rugby union lost the great Bill McLaren, whose lexicon of classic quotes merits its own blog. ("That one was a bit inebriated—just like one of my golf shots" is one to savor.) It's been nearly 20 years since the BBC's "voice of tennis", Dan Maskell, sighed over an exquisite half volley or a rasping backhand down the line. These days, Boris Becker, John McEnroe and others offer us "color" with their expensive suits, risqué humor and occasional insights. Sadly, genuinely great commentators are as rare as British Grand Slam champions.