MotD is now little more than a rags propaganda show, with more than a sprinkling of dipper adulation on top.
It's been on its last legs for the past 30 years: it is tired, formulaic, and Lineker and his chums couldn't be more irritating if they tried.
On top of that they have Jonathan 'Squeak' Pearce screaming hysterically if a player so much as takes a throw in, and those God-forsaken bloody women commentators and their high-pitched screeching...FFS! Go away - a plague upon the lot of you!
And as for that vast mountain of lard, Garth Crooks (arguably the single most pretentious çunt on tv, and that accolade takes some beating, considering the wealth of competition), why can't that bloated, self-obsessed twat just waddle of into the sunset and never appear on British tv again?
He sits there like a fucking creosote-painted Buddha, all sweaty and shiny under the studio lights, desperately trying to come across as someone who can quote Descartè with the rest of the intellectual heavyweights the world over, when all he's doing is interviewing fucking Ian Holloway, or some such nonentity.
Thoughtfully cradling one of his 26 chins, and furrowing his brow in a feeble attempt at looking like a wealthy, cool, hip, streetwise university student, 'digging the sounds' at a dimly lit trad-jazz concert somewhere in Soho, while some stick thin coke-addled starlet is gorging herself on his flaccid member, trying in vain to spark a bit of life into his pitiful little manhood but failing miserably...
Fuck it! I've gone on too long, as ever.