Magic Spanner

by Carlton Kirby

  There is only so much news, so much tech or rider palmarès to go through before those commentators who work ‘from the page’ run out of material. A stage guided by a research monkey will be as dry as a cracker. When all material has gone, they finally default to interviewing the colour commentator, usually an ex-pro. This is known in the trade as ‘passing the mike’ or indeed ‘taking the mike’. And so it all starts to draaaaag. It’s porridge. Time, then, for a scoop of Tutti-Frutti. Some tasty colour.

  Encyclopaedia Carltonica

  11.25 a.m. The peloton has settled into the relative amble of a mass tap. This is not a protest. The break has formed and gone. It suits everyone. They might be allowed a gap of, say, 11 minutes’ temptation time on the peloton, just so the underdogs believe there’s a chance of survival. Everyone back in the pack is happy. It’s a day for the quick men so, for everyone else, it’s simply a task of getting through the stage and letting the rockets loose at the end. No panic yet. And no action until the end.

  Around now, the viewer begins to be shown the familiar magnificence of France. The director is a guy called Jammo, short for Jean Maurice. He’s been doing this since his hair was black. His considerable locks are now white as snow, just like his reputation. He is a genius. Jammo, or Monsieur Confiture as he’s known among the Brits, starts to paint the day with sumptuous shots. Some are live and some ‘in the can’. As he weaves his magical interludes away from the gently cruising riders, we get reminded why this is the greatest theatre for a bike race on the planet. France is simply gorgeous. Even when it’s dodgy, like Brest or Lens, it’s still gorgeous.

  But pictures are not enough. Hours of mountains, beaches, lakes, chateaux, vineyards, notable landmarks and so on, they need a guide. This is when commentators really earn their crust. Anyone can call a dramatic mountain finish with the field spread out in a battle of attrition to the top. But this is not that day. A Mogadon day needs waking up. Hello!?

  Luckily, I have a memory that’s a lexicon of facts, figures, images and stories that I’ve built up over the years. How extensive this library is, I have no idea. You see, I don’t ever throw away a memory. Everything is in there. I am always reminding people of what they have done.

  ‘How the hell do you remember that?’ they say.

  ‘Well, I have no idea to be honest. But I never forget a thing.’

  That’s not to say my memories are in any kind of order. There is no filing system. It’s an emporium in there and it’s easy to open a drawer that has been closed for decades. Up pops a thought or a tale that even I am happily surprised to find. And it could be anything. The slightest trigger will set me off. Honestly, even when I’m not broadcasting I’m often asked: ‘What are you smiling at?’ I’m simply busy chuckling to myself as another random page of this crazy life’s diary is recovered for my own amusement. It’s fun to go for a rummage around in there. I do it all the time. And sometimes, particularly on quiet days, I take the audience with me. And so it is that the commentary can become a bit random as the Encyclopaedia Carltonica is opened up.

  It’s an absolute mishmash of information, from crop rotation and farming methods to roof tile manufacturing, both ancient and modern, in south-west France. Grape varieties, sausage production, the healthy properties of zinc worktops – all this and more alongside anthropological studies of South Pacific islanders and an extensive knowledge of cloud formations and the prevailing winds of the Mediterranean. It can be medicinal, commercial, poetic, historic – and sometimes all of these things.

  ‘Brian, did you know that the monks who produce the Benedictine Liqueur never actually get to taste it? And that their biggest market as measured per head of population is actually Hartlepool? A Hot Benny has been hugely popular there since troops returning from the First World War, who had been billeted in the monastery, came home with the stuff. Pubs add warm water to it to make a winter hot toddy.’

  To which Brian Smith, twice British Champion, will simply say, ‘Er, no. I didn’t know that’, in his soft Paisley accent.

  There are, of course, guides to help out the less anecdotally loaded. Such lexicons will tell you that: ‘The thimble of Belafonte is the smallest to be found in the Loire valley.’ This is small beans. While one commentator might pitch for this as a filler, I will be busy regaling the viewer with the rudiments of manufacturing gaufrettes as we pass a biscuit factory.

  ‘I drove a forklift there as a summer job back in the mid 1970s. I really did, Biscuiterie Rouger in La-Haye-du-Puits. Bernard Hinault was on the telly in the canteen. Naturally. My pal, Mark, ordered whelks and asked me for advice on a rather black one he’d just curled out of its shell. I said I had no idea but added that they are usually green. With a ho-hum shrug, he went for it and ended up in hospital . . . Er, you still with us, Sean?’

  ‘It’s like bringing a catapult to a nuclear war.’

  A Tough Night at a Cycling Club

  As a result of my verbal meanderings, I’ve gained myself a bit of a reputation as something of a wanderer during races. So I was more than a little surprised when I was approached at the end of a charity dinner by someone from Kenton Road Cycling Club. They were celebrating their 75th anniversary, and there was a founder member in the audience. He was 89. Up he wandered. There was I thinking that my hosting of the night’s raffle was in for a compliment. But no.

  ‘Do you know what annoys me about your sort?’ he said. ‘You commentators. We pass by all these chateaux and all this wonderful landscape and scenery and you never mention them.’

  ‘Are you an ITV viewer?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In that case, we’ve got nothing to say to each other. Because that’s my stock in trade. I am famous for going off-piste. If I did it any more, I’d be a tourist guide.’

  He wouldn’t let go: ‘You see, there is so much to talk about regarding the scenery and so on.’

  ‘I KNOW THERE IS,’ I said, my volume rising slightly as I made allowance for what I assumed must be deafness rather than simple bloody-mindedness. ‘THAT’S WHAT I DO, YOU SEE. YOU ARE CLEARLY WATCHING SOMEONE ELSE. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’

  ‘Well it’s just not good enough . . .’ Etc, etc.

  A friend of mine once decided to make a documentary featuring people over 100 years old. He said it was so depressing. Rather than offering up jolly reminiscences of a long life, they were all simply the most miserable curmudgeons he could imagine. Basically, they complained about everything. Nothing in their lives was either good enough or as good as it used to be. Well, wake up, Grandad, there is more cycling on telly than there has ever been and my job is to keep it lively.

  ‘IF YOU ARE WATCHING SOMEONE ELSE, I CAN TAKE NO RESPONSIBILITY,’ I added. I think I then said ‘git’ under my breath.

  ‘What did you just call me?’

  Clearly his hearing worked just fine when it suited him.

  ‘YOU ARE CLEARLY NOT WATCHING E – U – R – O – F – S – P – O – R – T.’

  ‘There’s no F in Eurosport!’

  ‘PRECISELY! NO EFFING EUROSPORT, AND I SUGGEST YOU SUBSCRIBE.’

  Time to go home.

  The Man with the Golden Microphone

  If it’s an action-packed day, especially a mountain stage, then our job becomes somewhat easier. That’s because, believe it or not, we know what we’re talking about. Well, most commentators do. Not all, though. And if one is prepared to wade in to a sport where the home audience is generally rather knowledgeable, then . . . oh dear!

  I knew a certain Dutch commentator who claimed that he had once been awarded the highly coveted and, as far as I know, entirely fictional prize of The Golden Microphone for his supposedly excellent sports commentary in the Netherlands. Somehow he’d ended up at Eurosport and he was renowned for being the most appalling commentator – it didn’t matter what it was, from football or tennis to speed skating or beach volleyball, he was hopeless. Why was he there? Schmooze. He was an amazing schmoozer. He wined and dined at the fi
nest restaurants and his guests were the main men at the top of the organisation. He was even one of the select few who sailed the company yacht. Yes, that’s right. The yacht. Eurosport was owned largely by TF1, the equivalent of ITV in the UK. France being an apparently proletarian republic and TF1 surviving with a good deal of public help, everything within the organisation was to be shared equally. Equally among those who knew, obviously. This yacht was virtually Top Secret. There was no application process for access to enjoy its decks, either bobbing in Nice harbour or out at sea. No, this was a secret shared among the elite. And our friend was one of those.

  One sport after another fell by the wayside as producers came to realise that the new boy was not up to scratch in any way save for bravado, gold teeth (of which he had plenty), and a rather liquorice voice that had got him through the door in the first place.

  One day it was the turn of cycling to welcome our friend to the microphone. And what a day it was. The Queen stage – the hardest, most demanding stage of the tour and therefore the most prestigious. The regular commentator was down after a dodgy andouillette for lunch out on the course. This meant that our friend would voice the day remotely, from the Paris hub studio.

  For what follows, let’s call our friend GM, in honour of his award.

  The conversation went something like this:

  ‘GM, do you know anything about cycling? We’re desperate for a commentator on today’s big Tour de France stage, can you do it?’

  ‘Of course I can. I didn’t win the Golden Microphone for nothing, you know.’

  ‘Okay. So it’s the Queen stage, the most important of the whole Tour de France. You obviously know that this is the big one, the decider. Now, are you sure you can get up to speed with this iconic day and all the history attached? Do you understand how important this is?’

  ‘The Queen stage. Well, yes, of course that’s not a problem. Just leave it to me. I’ll be absolutely fine. I am, after all, the winner of the Golden Microphone.’

  If Mont Ventoux did get mentioned, it was perhaps lost in the panic. But surely everyone knew what was to come; GM was as confident as ever. And so the day began.

  To be fair, GM acquitted himself satisfactorily for the first few uneventful opening parts of the stage. As they approached Mont Ventoux, even he was able to pick up on the rising tension and stress within the peloton as riders vied for a good place at the front of the pack. The mighty climb loomed over them and they began to tackle the lower slopes that are hemmed in by trees before it opens up into the famous lunar landscape that is the Bald Mountain.

  Just below the tree line on Ventoux, before you get to the barren, brutal, desolate and windswept flanks of this terrible mountain, is Chalet Reynard. It’s here that you can find a road sign telling riders and drivers alike whether the pass is open or not. This road often becomes blocked by snowdrifts in winter and high winds in springtime, but being the height of summer, it was of course open. ‘Col Ouvert’ said the helpful sign, which was picked up by the TV camera on the back of the motorbike as it chased the pack upwards.

  GM’s commentary went something like this:

  ‘So here we are. The riders approach this iconic, famous climb. This is the big one, folks, the one we’ve all been waiting for. The mountain that defines the Tour de France. So much history. Just think of all the famous battles that have been fought on this monstrous mountain. It is, of course, that most epic of all mountains, the Col Ouvert.’

  I remember the reaction of the producer of the day. It was Patrick Chasse, a man who remains a big noise in the French cycling world. He was watching the screen and even though he didn’t speak Dutch he had a sense of what had just been uttered.

  ‘What did that monkey just say?’ he asked Jurriaan Van Wessem, an equally renowned journalist from the world of football.

  ‘I believe he just referred to the world-famous Col Ouvert,’ he said with a smirk.

  ‘In – croy – fooking – able!’ was Patrick’s rather entertaining Franglais take on the matter. Our friend GM did not do cycling again.

  ‘My brain is like a box of frogs on acid.’

  Lazy Monks

  No matter how dramatic a mountaintop finish turns out to be, it is usually a story that tells itself. The drama unfolds slowly, with the riders clearly visible and in small numbers. Their dogged battle is a chance for a commentator to call it home comfortably. This is a lily that needs no gilding. So if you want to measure the value of a commentator, then listen to a boring day: a transitional stage. One where nothing at all happens for hours on end. That is where a good commentator carries the day. Like a sherpa, often without much credit, a good commentator gets you to the line in good spirits, having carried you there despite the tedium.

  On quiet days, some filler subjects crop up more than others. Usually things that annoy me get a lot of time. I’m not given to overt grumpiness for the sake of it, but certain things really rile me and on a quiet day they get on air. One of the stalwart subjects is Lazy Monks. There are a lot of them about.

  Monte Cassino is a rocky hill about 130km (80 miles) south-east of Rome and was the site where Benedict of Nursia established his first monastery around the year 529. This sanctuary was the site of the horrific and bloody Battle of Monte Cassino in 1944, when it was destroyed by Allied bombing in an attempt to dislodge the German forces who were dug in to the impressively thick walls. The damage was extensive and the fighting was intense. What remained after the battle was a sad reflection of what had been before. As a result, a World Heritage Fund was established to make good what had been destroyed. Decades later the transformation is amazing, so I am told. For despite having visited the venerable building on the mount, I have not seen inside it.

  On a day when the cycling world came by, it was – as usual for us – shut. It may well have said: ‘Gates closed. Go away.’ I find this simply infuriating, particularly when the world has paid such enormous sums to these institutions, either to maintain them or indeed rebuild them. Such places are only open to the chosen. Sadly, this righteous list does not include cycle fans. They don’t want squeaky sport shoes going round their basilicas.

  So there I am, fuming on air, as we sat at the finish line just 30m (100ft) or so from the locked gates of the monastery. On what was a quiet day I had time to rant and knew it would not be long before the on-site producer from RCS Sport, the organisers of the Giro, would come to visit me. He calls me Cialtrone. It’s not affectionate.

  ‘Cialtrone, it is time to stop these critical words.’

  Meet Roberto Nitti, a nervous man in a high stress job that he does very well. He can be quick to anger and paces around the compound in a festering, beady-eye kind of way. Cialtrone, by the way, means ‘slob’ in Italian. I like the joke.

  During a break, Francesco, one of the rather excessively suave Italian commentators from Rai Uno, slides an arm over my shoulders. It’s like being introduced to a pet python. With this weight on my shoulders, I dare not move as his tobacco-dipped voice whispers some advice.

  ‘Carlton, Carlton,’ he said. ‘You have to play the game.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You phone beforehand,’ he said. ‘You go and interview the Abbot. And then you have a private tour.’

  Well, perhaps the lockout was a blessing in disguise because it gave me at least 20 minutes of transmission time while I stuck the boot in. Now, though, whenever I see gates to a monastery I simply have to stop the car and get someone to take a photo of me trying to force them open. Lazy monks. Can’t stand ’em!

  Barolo: No Barrel o’ laughs

  I love it when the Giro passes through some of the smaller, insignificant villages and towns where the locals really celebrate the whole event. Often you can go to some of the poorest and most modest areas of Italy, and here the press corps will be treated like royalty. These areas are charming and unpretentious. They may well not have much, but they’re determined to share what they do have with you. This might be a small bottle of wine
as a gift or even a little book of local postcards. Lovely. They have usually put on some kind of catering, and a local dish will be top of the list. It’s usually served up by kids from the local schools, who have the day off. Everyone is all smiles and the atmosphere is just perfect: low key and lovely. It’s like a family gathering. Everyone is chatty, and we find out about them and a little bit about their area. Wonderful.

  And then we have the likes of Barolo.

  Barolo wine has, unjustly in my opinion, carved out a reputation for itself as one of the country’s premier Italian reds, with its self-proclaimed rich and velvety texture. The vines are ancient and the area is full of old money. It is a very wealthy place.

  There is not a dog turd in sight or a bus ticket blown through the street. The holy vines look like they’ve been not just pruned but manicured. You go past all these beautiful estates and villas where, for generations, these families have been very well off indeed, thank you very much. Even when the wars have washed through, the landed and branded could buy favours with a great big barrel of wine and remained untouched and impregnable. None of the good stuff ever got bombed. I see it as my job to chip away at these institutions.

  When the Giro passed through Barolo, they provided absolutely nothing! This was in stark contrast to their poorer cousins further south. However, we the media are supposed to write about Barolo, broadcast about Barolo and take photographs of Barolo. For this, all they gave us was their reputation. What’s more, they shunned the entire event. As if we were supposed to be grateful just being allowed to be there.

  Barolo, one of the richest micro regions of Planet Earth, didn’t even provide water for the press corps. And it was a hot day. The press were getting grumpy. There wasn’t a coffee machine to be found.