Sports Personality of the Year: a show so dull it gives me nightmares

One of my recurring nightmares – sweat, knotted sheets, the frantic sensation of a bedroom at rest suddenly illuminated by the slash of the big light – is that I have to go for a pint with Michael Owen, former Sports Personality of the Year (Sunday, 7pm, BBC One). In 1998, Owen was rated Britain’s top sports personality, despite (even at his then-tender age of 19), having the unerring energy of someone whose favourite Sunday activity was opening all the doors out and hoovering his car.

“I’ve got a little jet wash thing,” Michael Owen is telling me, while he sips a tankard of bitter that he left to warm up to room temperature before he drank it, and I say: “Uh huh.” “It’s got a little nozzle on it. Great pressure.” That must be good for getting in the grooves of the tyres, I say. “It is, yeah. Muddy up round us.” We fall into a lull of silence. “Got it on offer, too…” Michael Owen trails off. Do you ever, I ask, use that on the driveway? Michael Owen thinks for a moment. “No.”

The nightmare always ends the same way: the rising swell of noise, of fruit machines and people eating peanuts and children playing, distantly, in the pub garden behind us; chattering laughter at the bar, the turn of Sunday newspapers, the ding of the kitchen bell, and Michael Owen’s small eyes, staring at me in silence. And then he opens his mouth to speak.

“Do you mind,” Michael Owen will say. “Do you mind if Kelly Holmes, Jonny Wilkinson, Zara Phillips and Lewis Hamilton join us?” And then I’m back in the world again, palpitating, panting, screaming, and a quiet voice shushes from behind me. “The Michael Owen dream again?” the voice asks, and through the tears I nod. “Mark Cavendish can’t hurt you, Joel. Tony McCoy can’t hurt you. Chris Hoy’s massive thighs can’t hurt you.”

It is Sports Personality of the Year again this week, an awards show that I modestly propose should actually be renamed Hey: Remember Sports? Because that’s all SPotY is: Gary Lineker, in a tuxedo, remembering sports; highly produced Coldplay-soundtracked soaring sports memories from the year that came before it; the audience of people – also in tuxedos, also remembering sports – clapping at every memory of sports; and occasionally Gabby Logan coming in, yelling, “Remember sports?”, and everyone saying: “Yes, Gabby, we remember sports.”

At the end of the evening, a trophy is awarded to the person whose sport we remember most, which this year will be almost certainly be Ben Stokes. The whole programme runs over and threatens to bump forward into the news, so he has to say thank you really quickly. “Sport can be… so much, for so many people,” Ben Stokes will say. “Remember: sports.”

And I retreat, to bed, praying that Michael Owen doesn’t visit me again in my slumber, asking what my favourite Castrol oil is (“GTX or Edge, Joel? This shouldn’t be that difficult!”), or whether I read the latest Tesco Magazine.

“The voucher offers,” Michael Owen will say. “The voucher offers are unparalleled. If you don’t claim them, you’re just leaving money on the table.” He takes another sip of bitter. “You’re just leaving money on the table.”