They will tell you, over and over, that the Super Bowl is the greatest sports spectacle on earth. By “they”, I mean specifically “Young” Jake Humphrey on the BBC, although a reference to the spectacle’s unrivalled greatness has been a staple part of any television jockey’s introduction on Super Bowl night since Howie “the Duke” Wangschrieber led the mighty Marlin Heads to their inaugural Wayne Hackensack trophy-lift back in 1934. (Sub-editors: please check.) And, of course, they’re right. There is nothing like the Super Bowl anywhere. OK, the Carling Cup final has a good old go these days, what with the tubs of burning glitter when the teams come out, and the puff of tinsel that accompanies the presentation of the silverware. But, frankly, it’s a family box of Brocks finest and a bonfire-charred potato in the garden by comparison with the Bowl’s globe-girdling firestorms and howling twisters of confetti. And that’s just when the head referee comes out.

Even so, would it be ungrateful to suggest that, with the spectacle’s greatness, comes an element of . . . well, not to put too fine a point on it, ponderousness? I merely float the notion, after some four hours of communion with this year’s big show, at which, I can report, it took six Hall of Famers, four uniformed officials and something in the region of 750 ex-servicemen in full military regalia just to get the coin tossed.

Whatever else you want to argue, it is clear that this is an event that has been allowed to grow and flourish in the total absence of someone on the sidelines shouting (in an English accent, probably), “Get on with it.” And they say America is the most impatient nation on earth. (Not “Young” Jake Humphrey this time: other people.) So much for that little gem. Any nation that can sit right through the Super Bowl — and not just sit through it, but remain gripped by it — has staying power to burn. If it took five minutes to toss the coin at the FA Cup Final, people would start leaving early to beat the rush.

And don’t forget to factor in a quite staggeringly abysmal half-time performance by The Who, with Pete Townshend controversially missing almost as many strings as he struck during a nail-pulling version of Won’t Rehearse Again. (Sub-editors: another check, please.) What a story in the game, though — with the New Orleans Saints coming from behind to beat the favoured Indianapolis Colts and signal the rebirth of their city after the flooding horrors of five years ago.

Indeed, as a result, one might have liked to have seen the victory set in a broader context in the studio by someone other than Alex Smith, the San Francisco 49ers quarterback, who seemed like a very nice bloke, but perhaps wouldn’t normally be your first port of call for a bullet-point debrief on urban and social regeneration post-Hurricane Katrina.

But sports broadcasting often gets caught out like that, when the narrative develops beyond what we might think of as a strictly sporting remit. It’s the same with the John Terry affair. A lot of the time, you’ve been left wondering to yourself, “Why am I hearing from Garth Crooks on this one? Why haven’t they made room on the couch for someone who could really enlarge the picture, such as a qualified marriage counsellor, or The Times’s own Suzi Godson?” (Crooks, incidentally, on Match of the Day 2, credited Terry with “balls of steel”. It was a slightly unfortunate time to risk the metaphor.) Or maybe the joyous mayhem of the final scenes said enough by themselves. “Young” Jake thought we had seen “more exciting” Gatorade drenchings in the recent past. And fair enough: the build-up play was a bit sloppy and, as a result, the Saints’ coach didn’t take anything like the full bin-load. Then again, in the context, to attempt the soaking at all, and risk awakening some awful memories, was pretty brave.

Over on Dancing on Ice (which probably isn’t the greatest sporting spectacle on earth, but can certainly seem like one of the longest and, when, Phillip Schofield is on song, is definitely one of the noisiest), Robin Cousins announced that he would be a taking a fortnight’s break from his role as chair of the judging panel, in order to commentate on the Winter Olympics for the BBC.

It’s not up to us to criticise a man for his priorities. That’s a matter for Cousins and his conscience. We would merely point to the example of Len Goodman, the head judge on Strictly Come Dancing, who regularly rockets backwards and forwards between here and the United States, to mind the American version of the series. If “Uncle Len” can nobly rise above the transatlantic lag, surely it would not be beyond a younger man like Cousins. But isn’t that just the way? Since Concorde went under, some people have lost all appetite for the fight.