Moaning about Talksport is like going to the circus and complaining about the clowns.
Put a bunch of third rate pundits together in a room with microphones and mentalist callers and you are never going to rival the Oxford Debating Society.
Personally I find their ever-increasing levels of desperation, mutual circle-jerk reassurance, ("it will be alright won't it/wee Davy will come good, won't he/how the fuck did it ever come to this"?), and general chickens-lacking-heads 'don't panic - don't panic' Clive Dunn-esque hysteria to be fucking priceless.
It's like witnessing human beings dissembling slowly but surely live on air - you know you are rubbernecking on personal grief, but you just can't help yourself.
It is the radio version of watching the Goat nutmegging Neville on an eternal loop.