John Nicholson and Alan Tyers wake up naked, in a motel out on Highway 61, sit bolt upright and wonder what deal they have struck with the devil in order to be looking at football people on the TV. This week they feel all girly in the presence of Alan McInally.
Fashion Police
Solid. Male. Unflashy. When shopping he clearly makes a beeline to the clothes marked 'Men's Fashion'. Retail culture dictates that any clothes defined as 'fashion' are not actually fashionable and that suits Macca just fine. His clothes belong to no specific era. They exist and that is the most we can say about them. Jackets are plain, dark and wide of shoulder. Shirts are white or grey. Ties are indistinct, offering a stripe at their most outlandish. Not a square inch of Alan's clothing offers any opportunity to be accused of being a foppish metrosexual. Would favour dark slacks with a high polyester content and would not have any shame about that. May even wear brown and not in a post-post-modern normcore fashion, either.
The sort of admirable chap who one would see in the pub at 5.31pm, tie loosened, top button undone, sinking a pint in five seconds and ordering another before he's finished the first.
Lingo Bingo
As a man from Ayr whose middle name is Bruce, he is surprisingly comprehensible to people from anywhere else. Has a touch of the west of Scotland poet about him and is certainly never short of a scathing remark if needed. Comments are often delivered with a roguish twinkle in the eye and a degree of amusement. Once made the papers because he said "shite" instead of "shot". Yeah. Really.
Does tend to get tongue-tied on occasions and can cut a strangely isolated figure when asked to sit and watch the live game which is on BT, separate from "the boys". In these moments he appears to be the keen student who has been thrown out of class for some indiscretion involving drawing a cartoon of the teacher's genitals.
Hits And Misses
Yer Mac has been on Sky for years now, so he's a perennial good performer who is approved of by all and sundry. He's managed to avoid the Andy Gray or Rodney Marsh-style sackable gaffs, which surely is quite an achievement when you come from a background that is many, many cultural miles from the latte-drinking, hand-crafted, artisinal bearded London kidult, 21st century media culture toss-pot who has somehow become the definer of public taste and decency.
However, we note that he does not dine at the top pundit table. He's a much-used substitute on Soccer Saturday and always a welcome and massive presence. But more often he is stuck on a gantry watching Sunderland hurt 48,000 people's eyes on a cold afternoon with a look of granite in his eyes.
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