Ex, ex, ex, eye, ex……..

Yes, it’s that time of year again, and Superbowl XXXIX, American football’s greatest day of the season ‘evented’ in Jacksonville, Florida on Sunday night….
What a game?…… I don’t know, I didn’t see it – I went to bed. I tried to give it a go, I really did – but an hour in and I’d had enough. Not even the razzle, the dazzle the double burger and frazzle, the ra-ra girls with their pom-poms, high kick-kicks and great jiggling jugga-jugs could keep me up….

Was it sport or utter rubbish?
Was it ‘Theatre of Suspense’ or ‘Carry on up The Touchdown’?
I couldn’t possibly say.

But I thought I should give it a go - and try and watch it. My mind is open - ready to welcome some unique culture from across the pond. I swig from my bottle of Bud, I'm so into it that I almost stand for the star spangled banner...... It starts, the event of events gets going... Hubba, hubba, hubba..........

The crescendo builds – like a soufflé fashioned from purest hype with a double dollop of hyperbole thrown in for good measure. On come the gladiators – as slow as can be – so they can bung a few extra adverts in between. The Noo England Patriots and The Philadelphia Gonads troop out – packed full of brooding malevolent testosterone and clad in the tightest Spandex known to man.

Yeowweee! High octane, high fives and high voices – the Spandex is taking its toll. We’re half an hour into the ‘game’ – and still not a ‘football’ kicked in anger. More ra-ra, more bla-bla and loads more adverts follow.

It’s advert infinitum – and then some moretium.

In order to pad out the time – especially as the U.S. are taking in the latest set of adverts, Sky cuts to the London studio. Three big blokes talking utter bollox. Tactics, craptics, waffle and even more bollox – then it’s back to the action in Jacksonville.

Anchormen Dan and Larry gravel in with an introduction "Hi I’m Dan – and this is Larry – welcome to Sooopabowel 39! Are we in for some action tooonite! We’ll be back right after these messages fram our spansars"….

Back from the ads – and then it happens. Well a whooppy do and a hey nonny nonny, the game is about to start ……………. And stop.

Time to shove in some more adverts.

In no time at all, we’re back again. Action a go-go all over the place. It’s as tense as a tense nervous headache with a side salad of sciatica thrown in for good measure. We cut to the touchline and a big fat jaffa with a big fat retro-headset earpiece ensemble clamped to the side of his head. This is ‘The Coach’ – and he is as big as a double decker. He’s like the Dook of Wellington at Waterloo. There he is, a General committing his troops to even more selfless sacrifice. Has he got his offf-fence out there or is he making do with his deee-fence? He starts jabbering – and pointing – and swearing in a Goddam mutha sort of way down his retro mouthpiece.

Just then, one of the 800 stripey shirted referees on the pitch blows up. The gridiron action grinds – to a halt. The stripey refs 'huddle'. It looks like a load of Newcastle supporters at a zebra convention...... Chief ref' utters something totally mundane. The crowd gasps - more double burgers are ordered to offset the shock.....

Actions speak louder than words. Unfortunately there is no action – just a ton of words courtesy of even more advertising.

The first quarter finishes – and the score is two religious ladies …. Nun – Nun.

The second quarter starts – at this point I’m suffering to advertising overload…. Touchdown! At bloody last – someone has done something and scored. Even more experts, plans, campaign examples and chicken entrails are all rolled out to explain the ‘play’….

That takes up another 10 minutes.

Suddenly. I’ve had eeeee-bloody-nuff. I went to bed.

Who won – well, it’s obvious isn’t it? The ad men from Madison Avenue of course!