What intellectually ornate times we live in, what rich and wondrous lives we lead, that we are never even momentarily deprived of life-enriching information on the happy elite who make a living as professional sportspeople!
What bloodless wretch could wait uncomplainingly till match-day to discover which players will comprise the team, when the media can keep us informed for weeks in advance of every swollen pineal gland, hissy fit and minor bout of constipation which might affect the line-up?
Would death not be preferable to the slightest delay in learning that a third possible suitor is considering a bid for Terry Teri Teré, that another Top Golfer is getting divorced/buying a new yacht/holidaying in Antigua, that a war of words broke out between Ferrari teammates in the FHM hospitality hot tub after the Silverstone Grand Prix?
What a feeble and wan existence this would be if half of the TV news was NOT devoted to sport, if radio bulletins did NOT rush frenetically through the most eviscerated news headlines to arrive, gasping with happy pride, at the vital announcement that Cortez Quixote is going to miss next Wednesday's training session and manager Phillipe DeRichio isn't happy about it. Over the course of a day's continuous listening, we may even, if fortune smiles, hear a comment on the Quixotegate crisis from the assistant coach or a board member, as long as they aren't too occupied negotiating the corporate complexities of next season's sponsorship deal or a pending share dilution (and if they are, it goes without saying that we must know every intimate detail of those crucial proceedings, too).
And then there's the bliss, the fulfilling ecstasy of the games themselves – or more specifically, the ceremony which surrounds… the trembling anticipation as we await the announcement of whether the formation will be four-four-two or four-three-three; the majestic adoration of the pundits (those Delphic deities, those exalted magi of sport's noble sorcery; how their disparate personalities captivate and enchant us!) as they swivel their seats and smooth their ties; and the solemn sanctity of the analysis, the magic words which give meaning to our passion, validation to our worship.
For how else could we fill the abyss of our weekends without this theatre of beauty, this dazzling panoply of physical and verbal poetry? Where else but in the cyclical patterns of league-based sports would we find the inspiration, the grace, to stir our inner selves to the discussion of meaning, of truth, of life itself? Surely this shared, non-stop carousel of physicality and learned discourse is humankind’s greatest achievement?
I for one would continuously engorge my senses on the dazzling panoply of all televised sports coverage – comment, opinion, rumour, replay – were it not for the unconscionable interruptions of the females of the household, who insist on wasting as much as thirty minutes at a time watching their stupid soap operas.
It’s incredible how they can tolerate that endless, repetitive, plot-free nonsense.