Watching ice, ice maybe...

It’s absolutely no secret that I tend to get a tiny bit carried away when it comes to watching sport on the old television.

It doesn’t matter if it is mainstream or almost entirely unheard of, I’m happy to give every competitive event a little sofa time. Or a lot.

So, you’d imagine the winter Olympics would tick all sort of boxes when it comes to fuelling my mostly harmless addiction.

Well, in many ways it does. In others, not so much.

It will never match the summer games for scale, drama or variety, but it still earns its place in the viewing schedule, because when it’s good, it’s properly good.

Winter sport at its best is like stumbling across a secret shop that only stocks speed, danger and people doing things in the cold that their insurance policies definitely didn’t anticipate.

Downhill skiing is the purest form of sporting honesty you’ll ever see. Gravity is the opponent, the course is the referee, and the margin for error is thinner than a supermodel on Ozempic.

There’s no time-wasting, no tactical fouls, no arguing with officials. You point yourself down a mountain and hope your knees stay on speaking terms with the rest of your body.

Ski jumping might be even better, largely because it combines the thrill of aviation with the deeply unsettling realisation that someone has voluntarily decided to do this repeatedly for a medal and a slightly larger flag.

Then there’s hockey, speed skating, snowboarding, the biathlon, and all manner of other contests where the adrenaline flows like water.

On the flip side, however, there is one set of events that are clearly difficult, clearly skilful and yet still feel less like sport and more like an intense talent show. I’ve tried, honestly I have. I’ve watched with an open mind, willing myself to be converted, but I remain uncomfortably numb.

Yes, I am talking about figure skating.

It’s impressive to behold, but it’s essentially dancing on ice with a judging panel. When medals are decided by who ‘interpreted the music’ more convincingly, you’re no longer watching sport so much as a sequin-fuelled artistic display.

There are some incredible performances but they just don’t quite feel like proper sport which, for me, needs a clock, a finish line, a target, or at the very least, an opponent capable of ruining your afternoon.

Even curling, which initially looks like competitive housework, wins me over because it has tactics, pressure and that delicious tension where one tiny mistake destroys four minutes of perfect sweeping.

So yes, I’ll keep watching. The winter Olympics may not be a sporting feast like its summer cousin, but it’s still a perfectly good buffet.

I just reserve the right to cheer loudly for the events that feel like sport and politely nod off during the ones that feel like chilly interpretive dance.

Fair play to Ilett for riding the wave. But at some stage the joke stops being funny and tips into tiresome. We have reached that point

Hair we go again

What began as harmless fun has started to feel like a joke that’s outstayed its welcome.

For the blissfully unaware, Manchester United fan Frank Ilett vowed not to cut his hair until the club won five games in a row.

It sounded amusing at first, a light-hearted bit of supporter silliness. More than 500 days later, it has mutated into a full-blown online saga, complete with millions of followers, sponsorship deals and live streams pulling audiences that many lower-league matches would envy.

At one point during last Tuesday’s West Ham United game, more than 100,000 people were reportedly watching Ilett live on YouTube just to see whether he might finally get that long-awaited trim. Not a title decider, not a derby... a haircut.

I even caught myself hoping United would win that game purely so the thing could end, which is when you realise the whole situation has drifted into slightly absurd territory. When a potential haircut becomes a bigger talking point than the match itself, something has gone a bit sideways.

You can understand why the club have distanced themselves from the whole thing. What once felt quirky now functions as a weekly visual reminder of how far they’ve slipped from their former standards. Five consecutive wins used to be relatively common for Manchester United. Now it feels like a rare celestial event.

Fair play to Ilett for riding the wave. He’s built a following, raised money for charity, and turned a throwaway idea into a minor media enterprise. That takes creativity and commitment, even if it also requires a very tolerant barber.

But every novelty has a shelf life. The gag has landed, the point has been made, and the hair has done its job.

At some stage the joke stops being funny and tips over into tiresome. I think we have reached that point.

Putting the show into showdown

The Super Bowl was watched by roughly 125 million people last week, which sounds like a triumph of sporting devotion until you pause and ask a simple question: how many of them were actually watching for the football?

Some, obviously. There are millions of fans who understand every formation, every adjustment, every tactical nuance and love every second of the on-field action.

But tens of millions tuned in for everything else – the halftime show, the adverts, the celebrity sightings, the trailers. All those moments designed specifically to trend before the first quarter even arrives.

In most competitions, the game is the main focal point and the entertainment fills the gaps. In the Super Bowl, the entertainment is the event and the game politely occupies the spaces in between. It’s the only sporting occasion where viewers openly admit they’re looking forward to the commercial breaks.

That isn’t a criticism, it’s an achievement. The NFL has built something so vast, so glossy and so culturally unavoidable that even people who barely understand the rules of the game still feel compelled to watch.

I’m not one of them. But I understand those that are.

E-mail: Jamescalvertmalta@gmail.com

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