Heckling at Euro 2012 | A heartfelt appeal, let me do the commentary

I have to admit that since the last time I wrote, things are looking up.

One full week of football and not a single carcade; Croatia and Ireland gave a brilliant spectacle on Sunday, Jakub Błaszczykowski scored what is probably the tournament's finest goal in Poland's cracker against Russia, the petty Dutch are step away from being eliminated, zee Germans are performing, Andriy Shevchenko can still score like it's 2004, and Nicklas Bendtner, the irritatingly overconfident Dane can finally say he's better than Cristiano Ronaldo, albeit for only 90 minutes.

My intrepid tour among fandom in Malta takes me to Bugibba for England vs France: a town that would have liked to look like Brighton but words like "planning" and "development" got in the way of that. So I venture into the Three Lions' den, among many sunburnt expats who are out en masse to support their country. Accompanied of course, by a barrage of Maltese wearing unlicensed productions in the form of Rooney, Gerrard and Lampard shirts, or draped in the Union Jack (wrong flag, mate), or a plastic plate with St George's cross on their heads. Very bright indeed, lads. I should have bought one for meself.

I choose a pub which soon enough becomes hot and sweaty as patrons scramble for something to drink (unusually busy Monday 'ere). Kick off: we get a weak Maltese attempt at "England 'till I die", chanted with the verve of a drunken late night sea shanty, and duly met with derision from a couple of northerners standing nearby.

A general groan and some swearing, for a change, when Milner misses a goal I would have scored blindfolded. I trudge out from the pub onto the main square, where two large screens keep everyone glued (and relatively smelly), even though the neighbouring bars air the match from different channels with different commentaries just to make the experience more confusing.

Just a minute later, Lescott scores, the crowd roars, I lose sight of the big screen amid a fray of flags, horns, a couple of flying bodies and other debris. Standing at what I thought was a safe 50m from the apocalypse, I am almost baulked over by a stocky British man wearing a fishnet, short jeans and Doctor Martens. He didn't proffer half a glance by way of apology, choosing instead to gracefully burp a litre of beer into the atmosphere and go on filming happily.

Nasri drills it neatly past the creaky Joe Hart: the only shout is an irreverent "YES" from an Irishman who raises a V sign to boot. Here we go, I thought. But luckily, the people at his table smile and go back to their pints. Phew.

The match itself isn't anything to write home about but the trip to Bugibba was worth it. True to tradition, the Brits sang their national anthem minutes from the end of the game and unexplainably erupted in Vindaloo, probably the most stupid song ever written, before renditions of Come on Eileen and Football's Coming Home.

Last time I checked a draw was no reason to celebrate.

Photography: Malicia Dabrowicz

***

I've done MT a huge favour by bringing some colour and football into their life; before I started writing here, this organisation was only Spartacus, MEPA, or chocolate brown suits... BOOORING [Ed's note: Mr Flask's casting aspersions and is unaware of our policy banning chocolate brown suits]. I will now return the favour to myself by using the space the paper has given me for a heartfelt personal appeal. 

I know many of you feel very strongly about what I'm about to write. You are loathe to agree, but deep down in the abyss of your hearts you know I'm right. As Malc Tucker famously said, "the evidence is so deep, so hard, it will puncture your f****g kidneys."

Exception made for the veteran (hopefully immortal) George Micallef, the quality of the commentary on TVM (and TVM2) is ludicrous.

There are various sociological, technical, financial, practical angles the national broadcaster can cite in its own defence, and I like many others appreciate the effort to bring Euro 2012 with more than just a decent picture to everyone's households. Since neighbouring RAI is also broadcasting the event, eardrums are bound to tingle and fingers will itch. Many of us will find ourselves reaching for the remote control, and those who have the Melita box can comfortably switch the audio.

I sat through two long hours of Italy vs Croatia at the famous Caccu Social Club in Qormi, the scene of a thousand battles. Tragically the match was being shown on TVM2 and the incredible amount of nonsense that filtered through was just... well, incredible. (I'm not interested in the headhunt, so I'm not going to even bother look up the name of the commentator).

The backbone of the commentary is the gut wrenching, atmosphere murdering "A passes the ball to B, B passes the ball to C, C again to B", as if we were listening to a reading of the telephone directory.

Or the obituary.

Otherwise the pairing seems to be too busy reciting statistics or useless trivia, seemingly ignoring the goal mount action entirely.

The expressions and terminology (and this seems to be a common feature among all journalists) reek of language purism gone wrong, while there are no qualms about the literal translation of foreign phrases, without a minimum effort to understand what is being said ("għadhom ma tefgħux ix-xugaman" - yeah, football is played in Turkish baths). The tactical insight is woeful, shallow, meandering until fading off to produce sentences that make no sense. It seems that these gentlemen would struggle to communicate "normally" by using everyday phrases that everyone understands, opting instead for the jugular and the ... bullshitese. There is no excitement, none of the yelling that ought to accompany a wondergoal or a nasty tackle, no passion.

All the while Caccu roared with laughter at the commentator's pearls. Chiding security for letting flares in the stadium: X'għarukaża! he scorned, forgetting that last week a man walked into the fucking law courts with a blade and almost took a life. Howard Webb is filmed winking to nobody in particular, but that's a sign of him being "a friend to all the players" followed by a minute of senseless spiel ending with a genial "well, what else to say?" I was half-expecting him to imply that the ref often gets cosy with the players' wives.

Don't say anything, mate, you don't have to. English pundits often stop for brief pauses, to have a sip of water or look at their laptops, instead of wading into some stupid expression out of the mere need of having to say something. Like the infuriatingly dense "oh I'm sure UEFA affords to buy another ball".

Jesus wept.

Come off it. I want a fast paced commentary, some excitement, some irony, some informed tactical insight, plausible reasons as to why that player is being played in that position and not someone else. I want someone to pronounce the names properly, dammit.

I'll go further. Since I'm not your usual armchair critic, I volunteer to commentate one football match of PBS's choice (hand me Poland, Greece, the Czechs, whichever game you deem most useless), for free, with Giljan Agius as my co-host.

Then I'll let you all judge the outcome, I'll ask your commentators to line up as a firing squad, spot my mistakes and no-no's and I will take their criticism live on TV.

Come on PBS, you have my number. Call me.

I can't wait to yell Bendtneeeaahhh. Or Błaszczykowski.