We used to have people like Barry Davies, John Motson (before his senility), even Brian Moore, but now we have that bloody awful Jonathan Pearce with his screaming, adrenaline-laden, soprano voice because some team has made a substitution (“Oh my god! I’ve never seen anything like it in my life...a substitute is coming on the pitch...absolutely extraordinary!).
And then there is Tyler. A man who wouldn’t know the meaning of impartiality if it burrowed its way into what’s left of his brain, set up home there, and invited all its friends and family around for a barbecue. His obsequious grovelling to all things rag is truly nauseating: has been for the best part of thirty years, too. He makes no attempt to hide his fawning sycophancy when commentating on them, and even when he’s watching a game that doesn’t involve the rags he shoehorns them in somehow or other. I’ll bet at dinner parties the other guests get sick and tired of him going on about them (“Tyler, you biased fucker! Mention them once more and I will set light to that mess you call a face.”) The prick is going to end his days in a straight jacket, in a padded cell, dribbling, and muttering under his rancid breath the names of every ex-rag who has played a prominent role in his bukkake fantasies.