What is their problem? They all definitely have one. Poor potty training? Bottle not breast? You see it in their body language; the rictus grin; a fizzing frantic tetchy tension. A searching for love? The hollow, needy, obnoxious demeanour; the bossy, bullish lack of grace; all integrity waived. Knowing that any intelligent human could learn to do their job – inside an hour. Brings on the brass-necked, bumptious aggression. While well aware – that everyone, excepting maybe their mother, hates their guts. Doesn’t mean a thing off the damned duck’s back. They readily trot the old, ‘Don’t laugh Pal, I’m not working in a shop.’ As every hooker says – when you ask her, ‘Why?’ These heated heroes bark and bray to hide the absence of insight or wit – volume pathetically paraded as passion, when they don’t have an ounce of ardour in their bones. And the daft dressing up; always starts with a togged tartan waistcoat, then the pointy sideburns, blue bleached teeth, tangerine skin and zany hairdo – when you see a ‘character’ in a purple fedora you know you are dealing with a court buffoon. LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME, EVERYBODY LOOK ONLY AT ME!!!
  I’m talking here of Matthew Chapman and Jonathan Pearce, mostly. I was enjoying the film on Bobby Moore until Pearce appeared as largely responsible for Moore’s success, even though Bobby had made his debut a year before porker Pearce was born. Not that I heard anything he said as I used the fast-forward button every time I saw his ugly mug or heard his chuntering waffle. Matt Chapman, the Lodger – came to fame as Dave Compton’s flatmate, sitting in the corner, making the tea. When the Racing Channel reconfigured into Attheraces and professional journalists refused the cheaper contracts Chapman was there – 24/7 – bellowing bollocks with that awful tight-throated, back-of-the-larynx boom he employs. One Sunday fronting from early morning till after midnight; he even commentated when a link was lost, and mentioned this event every chance he got for many months after. Said Peter Rogan, a local wit, “The problem with Matt Chapman is, he’s a total cunt, who knows he’s a cunt.” Hits the nail on the head. Trackside reporters jokingly canvassed passing personages, ‘John McCririck or Matt Chapman?’ I would’ve answered, ‘Adolf Hitler’, given the chance. And then we have that Colin Murray; is it the hatchet voice like a sack of dropped chisels or the face like a beady-eyed market mouse seen gurning gross on Quest TV, or the larky laddish articles posted in the Metro? Those schoolyard similes always end ‘…like a council wheelie bin.’ Do none of these morons understand, that Alan Partridge is a satire?
  My sons say, “How can you let it upset you so? They’re only idiots. The world is full of them.” Is good advice that makes perfect sense which I would readily follow if these utter arseholes were working in golf, rugby union, F1 racing, rowing, polo or World Tour Tennis – stuff that don’t matter to anyone who’s cool.
  And radio DJs? Don’t get me started…