Читать книгу Jelleyman’s Thrown a Wobbly: Saturday Afternoons in Front of the Telly - Jeff Stelling - Страница 16

The only way to deal with the big rush of information that invariably hits the videprinter in the second half is to babble your way through the latest scores and scorers as quickly as possible, desperately hoping that you haven't missed anything out. I always try to make sure to mention at least every goal, even if it's disappeared off the screen - it's awful for a fan to turn their back for a split second or disappear for a cuppa only for their score to flash up. Over the years you develop a sense of how to separate the important news from the trivia, and goals are the most important part of the show.

When they flood in at the business end of the show - which is basically the last 10 minutes of a game - you have to dispense with the gags, puns and banter. There's simply too much information to relay to the viewer. And even if Kenny ‘The Good Doctor’ Deucher has scored (a cult Soccer Saturday figure, more of which we'll come to later) and you want to make a gag about Granny Mae (likewise), there simply isn't time. You always have to remember that, despite the humour that's so prevalent in the studio for much of the show, it's vital to keep the flow of results going. Making gags only serves as a needless distraction at this stage.

Behind the cameras, it is chaos, but it's organized chaos. The show is orchestrated by two people: Karen Wilmington (Wilma) and Ian Condron, our director and producer respectively. These two have to be absolutely on the ball behind the scenes, watching for scores, deciding which match reporters to cut to and debating where the action is so we can seamlessly switch from report to report. Obviously the tempo and pace of the show increase as we reach the final whistle. My role is to organize everyone on the panel, ordering them to be succinct and straight to the point when they're relaying the information from their TV screens to the viewer. The usual cry from the producers at that time is, ‘Walshy be brief! Walshy be brief! Fucking hell, Walshy, be brief!’ as panellist Paul Walsh rumbles on through an update. Despite his prolific goal-scoring record for Liverpool and Spurs, he has absolutely no idea what the word ‘quick’ means.

By this stage of the show, I am in my stride, and shouting and babbling like a madman. If I had to start at this pace from three o'clock, then it would be a bit of a problem, but because the whole show has been building towards these final dramatic minutes, I don't really notice the increased drama or tempo. If there is late drama – which there always is – then the shouting and the cries among Thommo, Charlie or Le Tiss make it so much more exciting. It's brilliant fun and the chaos works really well on air.

At the same time, you have to write all of the information down as it's happening, because later, as you recap, you'll need to know who has scored the goals as the games come to a close. I must say that in the last 10 to 15 minutes, the Scottish Second Division and Third Division fall by the wayside. I'll still pay them lip service and mention the scores, but I won't always catch up with the scorers and events until the final results. Something has to give slightly in the last five minutes.

This part of the show has to be the most entertaining. There are lots of different ways of maintaining excitement, though not all of them are popular with viewers, depending on how your team have done that afternoon. I remember there was a game at Manchester United and I was about to go to Charlie who was commentating, leading in with the words, ‘There has been a late penalty at Old Trafford, so you won't need me to tell you who it's gone to.’ it's a common complaint that the penalties always go to Man United at Old Trafford, especially in the closing stages of games, so it was our way of acknowledging the fact.

You have to be careful, however. I once got an email from a very angry fan of bottom club Derby who had been enraged by one of my links. After cutting to their game against in-form Spurs, I announced, ‘There's been a goal at Pride Park and it might not be the way you'd expect it to go [that is, to Spurs]. But on the other hand it might be.’ Derby had conceded and the next day a fan complained that I'd teased him, and demanded a public apology:

‘Jeff Stelling is bang out of order. I'm a Derby fan and he insinuated that we'd scored against Spurs when we hadn't. It was infuriating. He must be reprimanded.’

I understand it can be bloody irritating to people, but it's only irritating if it's going against you. When the results are going your way, you tend to feel less annoyed about the presentation of facts. And of course, there's a lot more riding on these results than simply pride - football spread betting is so big these days that the number of corners in a game can swing huge amounts of money either way, especially on the panel, all of whom are shameless gamblers. Often, the likes of Charlie and Merse are sitting there with their spread-betting coupons, counting the goals and hanging on my every word - when they should be watching the game in front of them.

It happens outside the studio, too. A friend of mine, Harry Findlay, who is a professional gambler, watches the show religiously every Saturday. He always says to me, ‘You do my bloody brains in, because you never know which way the goal has gone when you introduce a match report.’ I'm quite proud of that. You have to create some drama to entertain the folks at home.

It can be difficult to keep your composure when the scores of my team, Hartlepool, flash up on the videprinter. I might be reading out another result and then see their name appear at the bottom of the screen. It takes all my concentration to remain focused, because like any fan, I want to know how they are doing on a Saturday afternoon. Off-screen, I'll be punching the air or, more than likely, looking like a picture of doom and gloom.

The other distraction I face is that, as the excitement builds during the afternoon, my vocal cords are put under a tremendous strain. There's a lot of shouting going on, but so far I've managed to maintain my voice, though there have been some close calls. I had one email after a particularly hoarse afternoon saying, ‘Jeff, mate, you sound like Rod Stewart after eating a bale of hay, man! Get someone to the chemist's to get you a bottle of Sanderson's throat specific mixture, it'll have you singing like Chris Kamara during a 10-goal thriller. Get well soon, from Leon the Burnley fan.’

I'm not like Mariah Carey or Whitney Houston - I'm not one for drinking milk-and-honey concoctions before I go on air, though I do treat my body like a temple the night before and try not drink too much alcohol.