It seems likely that when the great ideological struggles of the Twentieth Century are investigated by the historians of the future, more attention than heretofore will be given to that between the Radio Times and the TV Times.
Sordel's interest in this behemothian conflict was engaged by the front page splash upon which RadioTimes editors are pinning their Pulitzer ambitions this year: "EXCLUSIVE [and this word, mind you, in red, as though the caps lock was insufficient alert to journalistic dynamite incoming] Back at the Beeb! Jonathan Ross on why he's older, wiser - and safer".
Now, set aside the immediate objections. True, Ross's final episodes of Film 2010 and Friday Night with ... did only air in March and July of last year respectively; there is stuff at the back of Sordel's fridge that as been out of sight for longer. True, Ross was on Top Gear last Sunday, so unless we are actually supposed to be excited that he is "back at the Beeb" after a respite of a full week, the hoopla does seem overstated.
And true, this appearance by Jonathan Ross is actually only as host of the BAFTA film awards. As reconciliations go, this scarcely ranks with Lear & Cordelia.
Set these issues aside and incline your mind instead to the the most pressing question that arises from this cover story:
Who cares?
RadioTimes, like the Russian bear, is fighting the Cold Wars of the past, when every household took two bottles into the shower: shampoo for the BBC, conditioner for ITV and Channel Four. Back then, when The Goodies crossed the floor from the BBC to ITV, TV Times treated them like defecting chess grandmasters. The timeses (TV and Radio) were vassal states fighting and dying for their implacable overlords.
With its monopolistic grip on the BBC listings, the Radio Times was once a proud superpower on the shelves of the newsagents. Now, like an old man his teeth, it has lost even the space in the middle of its title. Yet still it looks back upon former grandeur in the expectation that its readership will view it as Auntie's bastion, partaking of its every victory and defeat.
Just don't mention Sky.
Showing posts with label RadioTimes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label RadioTimes. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Topless Tennis Star In Magazine Cover Shock
Well, I say magazine. It's The Radio Times. Or RadioTimes, as a cunning rebranding that I somehow missed in the (probably) several years since it was made would have it.
The tennis star in question is Andy Murray, who is standing in his white shorts with a yearning expression in his eyes supposedly indicative of a thirst for future sporting accolades. Unfortunately, given his somewhat unnecessary pectoral exhibition, it looks to me rather like the expression of longing found in the eyes of a small boy who has just been told that the other team is Shirts.
Yes, Wimbledon is upon us again: a sporting fixture that Sordel used to watch for hours a day as a wee bairn but which has rather passed him by in the last decade or two. Grim psychological tussles between well-matched opponents used to be the stuff of summer afternoons back before the opening rounds became a series of thrashings delivered by the top seeds. Generally speaking, tennis up until the quarter finals (at least) is currently a game that might better be resolved by an extended system of byes.
As ever, though, a patriotic heart beats in the breast of the Great British Public when one of our lads takes to the court. Murray has inherited the mantle of Henman (and seemingly, in this cover shot, wishes that it was of a more tangible form) so we will all be rooting for him, while the Scots gaze frostily Southward and complain that the English are misappropriating their tennis stars as avariciously as we previously swiped their oil.
Meanwhile, our nation continues to reel at the shock of success in Formula 1, one of the few sports where we have a more or less unbroken record of comparative success. Lewis Hamilton ("och, Hamilton, he must ha' been a Scots boy") won last year and Jenson Button stands fair to displace him. There is a danger that those who chase the Union Jack wherever it may be flown in a sporting context (whipping themselves up into a chauvinistic fervour at our tremendous performance in the latest international tiddlywinks or dwarf-tossing competition) will hardly know which way to turn. Already party shops are reporting a shortage of white and red make-up in anticipation of the face-painting orgy that is bound to ensue.
For my part, I wish Murray well and (for reasons that perhaps do not need underlining) will be hoping for a future resurgence in the British Ladies' game.
The tennis star in question is Andy Murray, who is standing in his white shorts with a yearning expression in his eyes supposedly indicative of a thirst for future sporting accolades. Unfortunately, given his somewhat unnecessary pectoral exhibition, it looks to me rather like the expression of longing found in the eyes of a small boy who has just been told that the other team is Shirts.
Yes, Wimbledon is upon us again: a sporting fixture that Sordel used to watch for hours a day as a wee bairn but which has rather passed him by in the last decade or two. Grim psychological tussles between well-matched opponents used to be the stuff of summer afternoons back before the opening rounds became a series of thrashings delivered by the top seeds. Generally speaking, tennis up until the quarter finals (at least) is currently a game that might better be resolved by an extended system of byes.
As ever, though, a patriotic heart beats in the breast of the Great British Public when one of our lads takes to the court. Murray has inherited the mantle of Henman (and seemingly, in this cover shot, wishes that it was of a more tangible form) so we will all be rooting for him, while the Scots gaze frostily Southward and complain that the English are misappropriating their tennis stars as avariciously as we previously swiped their oil.
Meanwhile, our nation continues to reel at the shock of success in Formula 1, one of the few sports where we have a more or less unbroken record of comparative success. Lewis Hamilton ("och, Hamilton, he must ha' been a Scots boy") won last year and Jenson Button stands fair to displace him. There is a danger that those who chase the Union Jack wherever it may be flown in a sporting context (whipping themselves up into a chauvinistic fervour at our tremendous performance in the latest international tiddlywinks or dwarf-tossing competition) will hardly know which way to turn. Already party shops are reporting a shortage of white and red make-up in anticipation of the face-painting orgy that is bound to ensue.
For my part, I wish Murray well and (for reasons that perhaps do not need underlining) will be hoping for a future resurgence in the British Ladies' game.
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