SPOTY face-saving

Lingfield then Kempton gets abandoned, and out they come: 'How can it be known as All-Weather!?' A-W in that instance is the arse-end of a guffaw. A guffA-W. Followed by supportive snorts and like-minded LOLs. I take it these zealots, on the same principal, would never eat a hot dog, nor a Danish pastry (which originated in Austria, not Denmark), likewise French fries, and in their spare time they'd catapult stones at koala bears which are in fact marsupials. 

But nothing unites the swiping smart alecs like a coordinated attack on the 'personality' part of the BBC Sports Personality of the Year. Oh how we laugh with those who scoffingly suggest that Andy Murray shouldn't be anywhere near the top of the list for this sporting accolade because it contains the word 'personality', of which, they know, he has none. It probably was misjudged to change the title to Personality from Review in 1999, but, hey, it's a brand name at the end of the day and we all know what it represents, no less identifiable than All-Weather, Danish pastries and koala bears. 

So, please, let's just take the Sports Personality of the Year show for exactly what it is: an overblown, semi-disoriented two-and-a-half-hour broadcast in which the BBC reclaims sport for itself, despite virtually every montage having the footnote 'pictures courtesy of...' 

I can't put my finger on precisely why SPOTY doesn't do it for me like it used to. The advent of SPOTY as a working title doesn't help, but, above all, it feels less fun, the ceremony now taking itself a little too seriously, and then when the heavily-signposted 'fun' bits come along they seem ill-fitting, going down the Strictly road of light entertainment, highlighted by the fact hip-and-happening singer John Newman will be performing on Sunday night.

The reason I know Newman is doing a turn - as, by the way, is the slightly smarmy Russell Watson - is that I have in my possession a leaked copy of the SPOTY script. Here, for your delectation, is the text for the six-minute racing segment.

G. Lineker: Ladies and Gentlemen, your Team of the Year, the British & Irish Lions...

C. Balding: Horseracing now, and it wasn't only the Grand National where there were big obstacles to be negotiated, as 2013 saw some scandals that rocked the racing world, but there was one person who stood up to it all and proved exactly why this game is known as the Sport of Kings.

G. Lineker: Or should that be Queens, Clare?

C. Balding: (chuckling) Yes, Gary; the Sport of Queens. 

Cue video package entitled FAWN1, featuring a slow-mo montage of The Queen and Estimate at Royal Ascot, accompanied by the following boundary-bursting dramatic monologue read, needless to say, by Eddie Butler:

Queen by birth, racing by choice. She breeds horses you know. Matter not that most have had Timeform squiggles, for this one was different. Breeding is four-fifths hard work, one-fifth guesswork. Estimate you might say. She gave the horse life, and she gave it that name. Estimate. A loyal subject. A royal subject. 

Racing was a land of doping stories that became a land of hope and glory. The hope of a nation weighed heavy on Estimate's shoulders. Ryan Moore did not. The man tasked with riding The Queen's filly was a picture of concentration. He knew what it meant. And so did we. 

And so to the race. They say it's impossible to hold your breath for four minutes and twenty seconds, but most of us unwittingly did it that June afternoon, during which time we forgot: we forgot that Mahmood Al Zarooni had been running amok with syringes, and that others would turn out to be too. We forgot that Eddie Ahern received a 10-year ban for corruption. Martin Dwyer forgot about India, John McCririck forgot about Channel 4, Ingrid Tarrant forgot about John McCririck, and we forgot that the BBC had given up completely on horseracing.

Approaching the last of the twenty furlongs, Ryan Moore sent her victorious. Happy and glorious. Estimate won. The Queen won. John Warren definitely won. We won. Racing won...(fade out)>

C. Balding: The racing year wasn't all about Her Majesty, though. Well, it was as far as this programme is concerned, but let's talk quickly to the man who was Sports Personality of the Year in 2010 and is shortlisted again this time; ladies and gentlemen, 18-times Champion Jumps Jockey, Tony McCoy. (makes his way to the stage)

Question 1: You've already achieved everything there is to achieve in the sport, yet you seem as driven and as hungry as you ever were, so I think the the thing that everybody wants to know is did you see Elsworth and Murphy go at it at Newbury?    

Question 2: And there was a significant milestone for you this year, at Towcester, wasn't there, because you rode a horse for The Queen. What was that like? 

C. Balding (as Tony leaves the stage): Thank you Tony. I know he's won this award once, but there will be many people hoping and voting for a repeat performance, or an encore, including perhaps The Queen herself! 'Project Regal Encore', we'll call it. 

SPOTY is one race that McCoy can't win because, to the dismay of the misguided moaners, Andy Murray is past the post already, trading at 1.04 on Betfair, even shorter odds that The New One winning the International Hurdle at Cheltenham. 

The New One is in a bit of a no-win situation. He beats Zarkandar impressively and everyone shrugs their shoulders; he beats Zarkandar unimpressively and questions are asked; he gets beaten by Zarkandar and the Champion Hurdle bubble is suddenly burst. But the same could have been said ahead of his Kempton comeback when, with Rock On Ruby playing the part of Zarkandar, he proved the exception to the rules of trial-race judgements in that he handed out such a drubbing that he improved his own rating while forcing Rock On Ruby to seek a new career. 

Being big believers in My Tent Or Yours, who faced a similar scenario in the Fighting Fifth (and followed the seasonal rules by operating at only 80%), both McCoy and myself will be watching The New One with a jeweller's eyepiece, hoping for the best (hard driven) but planning for the worst (hard held). 

That's Saturday afternoon, though, and the main action this weekend is Sunday night. If you want a multi-hour televisual extravaganza, high on production if low on original material, essentially lightweight entertainment served with a healthy dollop of cheese, but I've always watched it so I should watch it again this year despite the misgivings, then it's the The X Factor final for you. Otherwise you have to put up with the back-slapping, self-serving, point-meandering Sports Personality of the Year on the royal-courting BBC. Still, it could be worse: you could be on patrol with the misnomer police.