Seinfeld a kindred spirit for tennis on the telly
Wimbledon on BBC a constant in changing world, writes Alan Tyers, but what’s the deal with cricket?
Tennis slides politely in and then back out again, leaving fond fleeting memories
Jerry Seinfeld played Hammersmith on Friday and Saturday, two shows each night, so four sets of 80 minutes each to packed houses. His act, practised and honed with a watchmaker’s eye for 40 years or more, was flawless, unmistakable and rapturously received.
His “what’s the deal with airline peanuts?” observational delivery about the minutiae and irritations of everyday life has spawned a thousand imitators, one of the greatest television shows of them all in Seinfeld, and the adjective “Seinfeldian”. The style itself has been aped into parody, and big-time stand-up has since moved in all sorts of different directions.
The master himself, now 65, delivers an act
with no mention of any political figure, nor race, feminism, sexuality, multinationals, the environment … aside from a short bit about Uber, it could have been a set from any time in the past decade. In fact, were it not for a section about the irritation of mobile phones, texting and people taking pictures of their food in restaurants, it could have come from 1989, the year his “show about nothing” started on US television. Neither technology nor shifting societal preoccupations meaningfully impact upon this supremely polished, utterly selfassured entertainment and money-making machine.
The good blazers of Wimbledon might well have noticed in Seinfeld a kindred spirit. The All-england Club’s sporting product, and the BBC delivery of it this past two weeks, has remained a constant in a changing world. Tennis slides politely into our consciousness for a fortnight a year, and just as unobtrusively out of it, leaving fond fleeting memories of coverage exactly as we remember it. Sue Barker’s ageless, jolly efficiency, spectating Sirs Cliff Richard and Trevor Mcdonald, oh look there is David Beckham looking impossibly handsome, a plucky Brit or two making a graceful exit before the real competitors get to the sharp end of the draws, Sir Andy’s glory years looking evermore like an unrepeatable interregnum between the decades of homegrown also-rans.
They play for two weeks, a Williams gets to the ladies’ final, Roger or Novak wins the men’s. John Mcenroe and Boris Becker continue in the roles of the welcome guest to these shores. The BBC signature use of montage, earnest interviews from Clare Balding, bits and bobs about strawberries, flag-waving sunburnt spectators on Henman Hill, a roof that can be moved with pulleys spoken of in hushed, awestruck tones as if it were the Large Hadron Collider or robotic microsurgery: all the elements were in place this year as they always are. The BBC broadcasting will touch on any occasional minor disturbances as they come up, for instance Johanna Konta’s defensive response to a patronising press conference question. Nobody wants the telly tennis boat to be rocked.
Also this weekend, I am reliably informed that Lewis Hamilton was doing some of his car driving on the telly yet again but I cannot speak to that four-wheeled snore-fest.
The other sporting event of note was, of course, the cricket. Where televised tennis has remained resolutely Seinfeldian, assured of itself, its place in the nation’s heart and constant in its approach, cricket and especially its relationship to television remains a source of neurotic preoccupation and constant tinkering. Sky did the decent thing and allowed Channel 4 to share its sweets; what impact this might have on the sport long term, if any, is hard to say as yet, but there is more debate to come no doubt next summer with the Hundred.
What, as Jerry might ask, is the deal with televised cricket?