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And the painting itself is fabulous, a dazzling paparazzi close-up of a celebrity under terminal stress. Caravaggio painted very fast, as if he had been lying in wait for Judas to plant the kiss. All this was explained through a calm voice-over from Sam West (if some art critic had got hold of it, his agenda would probably have been to impress other art critics). It is commonplace to say of some programmes that they took an hour of your life you will never get back; I would happily lose that hour again.
The Masters is the first major golf tournament and the ending (BBC2, Sunday) was thrilling. It also marked the return of Peter Alliss. Others have written at length about this commentator, but I have always found it difficult to decide why I find him so intriguing and yet so infuriating. I’ve decided he is like one of those jars of fruit preserved in liqueur that arrives in a Christmas hamper: rich, unctuous and fruity. You consume the Stilton, pâté and the port, but the jar goes to the back of the cupboard to be brought out once a year, if you remember.
Alliss dates back to a vanished time, decades even before golfers wore lime green sweaters and check pants. I suppose the BBC has asked him not to chunter on about the sadly missed Biffo Bedlington who made a wonderful 66 at Southport ‘sur mer’ while his wife was in labour, but attitudes don’t change. The winner on Sunday was Angel Cabrera, who is Argentinian. Naturally Alliss and his fellow commentators (they’re victims of secondary Alliss) had to speak humorously in Spanish: ‘Muy buen, hombre!’ for a good shot, or just ‘perfecto, senor!’
The runner-up, Ken Perry, comes from Kentucky, state of blue grass, horse-racing and bourbon, but to Alliss and pals it means one thing: ‘where the fried chicken comes from’. This leads to a look at the leader board, which turns out to be ‘finger-licking good’. A Japanese golfer comes fourth: ‘It’ll be sushi tonight, and sake!’ If an English player did well, would he say, ‘Fish-and-chips tonight, I’ll wager, sluiced down with a flagon of warm ale’? No.
When things go wrong Alliss will murmur ‘oy, vey!’ even if the golfer isn’t Jewish. Sometimes their efforts to add colour are unintentionally hilarious: of a difficult shot, ‘It’s still a knee-trembler.’
They talk to the ball (‘Steady on there, whoa!’) which I suppose golfers do, but not out loud, to millions of people. The problem is that, unlike other commentators, they can’t see the whole pitch; they’re in a caravan, watching the feed on television, just like us. I suspect that most modern players have no idea who they are, so they have little to add but this affable prattle, like an elderly uncle watching by the fire, half-asleep.
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