A tall tree cropped for a television signal is nothing new but still I have regrets for the chainsaw. A pleasant Sky man informed me one cold morning last December that the trees to the side of my new home had grown so irritably large that they would block out any hope of Jim White being beamed into my living room. I weighed it up and decided nature would have to be culled to feed the beast.
The trees are standard firs that have stood unsullied for years. The tips sway softly in a warm breeze though they resemble windscreen wipers at maximum throttle in a violent North Cork gale.
The perfect rationale then was they had to be chopped for safety's sake, not for the pleasures of Jamie Redknapp. My initial reluctance at disturbing what I imagined to be a vibrant society full of chattering robins and nagging swallows was tempered by the concern of said society crashing into my roof.
There was no chance of that, of course, just a somewhat unusual and comfortable fib an addict tells himself. I would have personally mowed down every tree in the vicinity of the house with my bare hands if it meant I could watch Paul Merson trying to say Michu.
The task of actually halving the trees though fell to those who had actual experience in the matter and who don’t flinch in the eye of what I’m told is hard work. Every time I pick up the remote from now I’ll think of and thank these brave souls. Or perhaps not.
The intervening sport-free weeks didn’t quite inspire a seven-stages journey but there was definitely anger and, once the flimsy internet connection was lost, bargaining. The all-encompassing bubble of sport was speared. Information such as which Reading centre-half was fit that Saturday – information that was once processed and stored without blinking – was lost. Games had to be cherry-picked like a diabetic choosing their one chocolate bar. The Super Bowl was spent at my old haunt, curled up on an ancient beanbag with a TV and a Sky box being the only other objects in the room.
Transfer Deadline Day was just January 31st to me. Xisco was released by Newcastle, Harry Redknapp rolled up and down his window, and Jim talked on his telephone. The suspicion that Sky Sports News (especially on deadline day) is about as memorable as elevator music was confirmed.
The thought initially occurred to me that during my cold turkey sports but especially football I would learn to appreciate the deluge of games that are on television. That having to choose between a clasico and Liverpool against Arsenal is a blessing. That deciding between Dortmund and Munich as a destination is a gift. But the realisation kicked in that frankly there is too much football on television. And on top of that, too much useless information about football on television. Too many empty talking heads and that mostly, this much football is boring.
The overkill of football on television has been flagged probably as far back as when Sky first introduced it on a Monday night and probably even before then. But we still watch in our droves. We still gobble every morsel up. Next season there will be four Sky Sports channels, plus Setanta, ESPN and BT all showing football. You can catch whatever Grand Slam Sunday is on that weekend, possibly featuring Chelsea with a Roman cam dedicated to the oligarch’s every nervous twitch. You can jet over to Paris and watch sometime-footballer David Beckham before taking a stop in Italy to see just what mad Mario is up and then can round it off by watching possibly the greatest side ever in Barcelona. But even watching Barcelona now is something of a chore. 3, 4, 5-0. Messi got two, probably. He’s brilliant. Yeah. Repeat.
In my solitude, I read. I read books that required concentration and a quiet room. I read books without interruptions from 5 new tweets. When Jonathan Franzen wrote that he doubted anyone with an internet connection at their desk was writing good fiction he could have expanded it to merely reading, but then Franzen would have missed the vulgar beauty of Joey Barton v Dietmar Hamann.
I did have one small sports comfort in the world and it was a paint-speckled radio left behind by the previous occupants. I performed that old task my parents would talk about of tuning in a radio and indulged in the irreverent brilliance of Off the ball. The week leading up to the Six Nations opener with Wales dominated the show and it was refreshing. Ireland v Wales happens once a year. Mike Phillips pilfering an illegal ball is remembered three years on. History is measured in years, not hours.
OTB had an interview with Brian O’Driscoll flagged up for a couple of days and after mastering the perfect dial for the channel I settled in for what I hoped would be basically Drico saying 'F*** the begrudgers'. Then inexplicably, the channel went. I frantically twisted and turned the dial but to no avail. The trees outside briefly flashed across my mind. You’re going to deny me this? The signal eventually came back and it turned out that most of the country didn't hear it. Nature was blameless.
The dish goes up tonight. Real Madrid v Manchester United is first up. The halved firs won’t disturb me for years.
I’ve learned though that from time to time, no signal is required.
