This marvellous piece of television captures a feeling I've had about some of the miseryguts commentators at the World Cup:
Do you know what I mean*? Here are these coves being shuttled out to one of the most amazing countries in the world, to watch the greatest sporting event on the planet, and not only is it free, they're actually getting ruddy well paid for it. You'd suspect that even the hardest-hearted of human beings would think to themselves, well, I've lucked out a teensy weensy bit here, best be thankful for this most glorious of opportunities and thank my oh-so-spectacularly lucky stars that I've been afforded this wondrous chance, through my own hard work and a little bit of being in the right place and the right time, to actually get paid real money - real actual money, and not shabby amounts of money at that - for talking about football, and get as much free nosebag as I can stuff into my gob on expenses, and a hotel room, and flights, and, well, you know, I mean it could be worse, couldn't it?
You might hope that level of humility might be in evidence, but not everywhere, I'm afraid. When you listen to the likes of Alan Green whining away about everything and anything; or Mark Lawrenson complaining that the football isn't quite as diamond-perfect as it otherwise might have been; or Adrian Chiles sitting there with the look on his face somewhere between having lost his car keys down the back of the settee and having just scented a particularly ripe fart coming from somewhere in the general direction of Andy Townsend's chair - you might be forgiven for thinking that they're really not enjoying themselves.
Perhaps it's reverse psychology. Maybe these guys are thinking "Gee, I really struck gold here. But I'd better make out that I'm not having such a great time, in case everyone back home thinks I'm rubbing their noses in it." Perhaps. But I don't think so. I think they're genuinely fed up with having to go through the onerous business of watching loads of free world-class football, then watching loads more free world-class football, then doing it all again, and then receiving a jolly nice cheque at the end of it all.
@Ogrizovic and I were wondering the other day whether Lawro and Greeny meet up at the end of every day, after a hard slog of being in the sunshine and getting free hospitality and top-drawer sporting entertainment, and then complain about everything else, maybe a bit like this:
Lawro: Tell you what, Greeny, the Rolls-Royce that brought me here had a slightly flickery courtesy light in the self-closing doors.
Green: Absolutely dire. Dire. Woeful. Lawro, this is the worst three-Michelin-star restaurant I've ever been in, well this week anyway.
Lawro: Terrible Chateau Lafite, this, Greeny. Uninspiring.
Green: It's not the 1982 vintage, is it? What kind of animals do they think we are? Folks, this is truly awful. We're only five minutes in to this 18-course dinner in one of the world's finest restaurants, and already the signs aren't good.
Lawro: I'm not impressed by this diamond-encrusted truffle pate, Alan. What were they thinking?
Green: I've had some bad meals in my time, but this is really miserable. Poor. Really poor. The cutlery is only 9-carat gold, for goodness' sake. And the football-pitch-sized ice sculpture of Guernica over there is particularly uninspiring.
Lawro: Roll on dessert, Alan. Roll on dessert.
Still, maybe that's why they made it. While most of us would be bouncing off the walls, screaming "Ohmygod! Ohmygod! I'm at the World Cup watching football and getting paid for it! Sex wee!" it takes someone particularly phlegmatic to shrug off those feelings of delirium and make the experience sound so crushingly unpleasant that you almost end up wanting to send them a Red Cross parcel. Or maybe the World Cup's rubbish, and it's no fun having to watch it all...? Hmm. I know what I think.
* I like the way Fry actually hits Laurie at the end, then looks concerned he might have hurt him, but has to carry on anyway.