Television
Nine miles to go
Martin Cropper
Ablack bow-tie surmounted by a tragic face hangs over a large green table — and before its owner has moved a muscle he is deluged by a cloudburst of applause or an operatic groan of dismay. The aural discontinuity of World Snooker (BBC 2, every day with a 'y' in it) stems from the fact that two separate matches are constantly in progress on either side of a fetching pink curtain. While the centrally seated spectators execute a slow-motion Centre Court rubberneck, couch potatoes at home wonder what the VTR boys are up to. Later we will see a recording of the other match randomly punctured by ap- plause from this one. The trick never fails.
London's Marathon (BBC 1, Sunday) had obligatory shots of rozzers and roz- zerettes demonstrating the art of consta- bulary applause on street corners, though it was impossible to hear their clapping above the loop tape of a breezily inane waltz that had evidently been rescued from a stuck lift.
Every so often the music would abate as we cut to Tower Bridge, where Bob Wilson, stick-mike in hand, hurled himself off the pavement to importune one of the displaced persons bobbing towards the camera like dolls on cam-shafts. For the space of a hundred yards Bob would jog alongside some herbert of an exhibitionist — the St Trinian's 'schoolgirl'; the 'fairy godmother' got up like a Quality Street wrapper; the man with the totem-pole of teddy bears poised on his neck — and learn that (a) it was a great occasion, (b) they were enjoying themselves, and (c) it was all for charity. A suitably printed teeshirt would have saved time and exertion. The oddest aspect of this was not that Wilson ended up looping the same strip of tarmac again and again like an outsize battery toy with scrambled circuitry, but that his inter- viewees didn't seem to mind running with his maty paw draped over their shoulders, his jolly goalkeeper's face crammed into theirs. Their forbearance confirmed my suspicions about their mental state. The afternoon was exhausting. David Coleman straining to inject excitement into the phrase 'Under nine miles to go!' was as nothing beside Women's Soccer (Channel 4) and Alan Parry, who had drawn the short straw to commentate on the WFA Cup semi-finals in a stadium notable for its echo. Parry's performance was an epic tussle between his sense of chivalry and the evidence of his eyes — not unlike the wrong-soundtrack hallucination of the snooker coverage. Unused to being kicked so infrequently in the course of a game, the ball bounded ever more joyfully beyond the coltishly lunging boots. Whenever one side connected with it they scored. Whenever they scored they shook hands. This happened seven times. It was a victory for football.
And Jeeves and Wooster (ITV) was a victory for the museum tendencies of British telly drama. During the opening credits I noticed that the next sofa along had sprouted a brace of eight-year-old trainee potatoes. Having had Wodehouse's basic set-up outlined to them, they sat in solemn absorption while the stately minuet unfolded. Perhaps they were waiting for Fry and Laurie to drop the pretence and get on with the investment commercial. Then again, maybe they were waiting for the jokes. Some day I shall explain to them the perennial appeal that cartoons of car- toons of British society hold for Amer- icans, themselves in love with class distinc- tion. I shall point out the moistly approving way that the camera lingered on period detail in the manner of a maiden aunt confronted with impeccable juvenile be- haviour. But for the moment I feel my radiation level getting dangerously low, and must return to the baize. Let's face it, Brian, it's the only exercise I get.
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