I’m referring of course to the annual festival of all things idiotic in American corporate-sponsored sport which will soon be causing our growing population of male Yankophiles – the sort who like to say elevator and sidewalk and drink beer that tastes like polar bear’s piss – to wet their Calvins in anticipation. If you’ve never seen it, this is how the ridiculous made-for-TV spectacle unfolds:
After several hours of overblown ‘build up’ (ie: endless clips of thick meatheads crashing into each other, incomprehensible statistics and slobbering fast food commercials for flag-waving fatties), a reverent, patriotic silence falls as the USA national anthem is murdered by a talentless billionaire.
Next, to tumultuous applause, two teams of overpaid jocks (usually named after one of the Native American nations decimated by European “settlers”), jog on to the field wearing huge crash helmets, shoulder pads and tights stuffed with pillows and at the umpire’s signal begin colliding with each other.
Sometimes one of the players grabs the “ball” (which is really a sort of pointed egg), and runs off with it but is soon caught and crushed under pile of men from the opposing team- this is the signal for the umpire to blow his whistle, ushering in a long, expensive commercial break featuring fast food, “beer” or imported cars as the two teams file out for some well-earned rest.
When play resumes, both teams will have completely changed personnel, depending on whether they are O fence or D fence. Two actors, one black, one white, will pretend to be pundits who understand what is going on and quote more obtuse statistics to the baffled TV audience.
That’s all you need to know, since the whole eye-popping charade is essentially a marathon junkfood-sponsored pantomime without the drag. If you must watch, make sure you have nothing else to do for at least six hours.
Colin Gibson