On a related note, today I accompanied a friend to an appointment with $doctor_of_obscure_conditions at $posh_private_hospital in That London[1]. The waiting area was exactly what you'd expect from such places: coordinated leather sofas, free Brown Drink dispenser, air conditioning, that sort of thing. They had a generously sized anbaric distascope at each end of the waiting area, tuned to the same channel, with subtitles on and the volume at an inoffensive level, such that you'd watch the screen on the adjacent wall while listening to the one above you. So far so oh-if-you-must.
Except that we're living so far into The Future that distascopes now have built-in fingery tuners, which is good because it delivers us from SCART connectors and incorrect aspect ratios, but bad because no two instances of a given stream are ever quite in sync. For bonus points the one above my head wasn't receiving a full complement of digits (the possible reasons for which are left as an exercise for the reader, on account of this not actually being one of Bill Wright's anecdotes), to the effect that the sound would drop out a couple of times a minute, usually timed to coincide with the inevitable garbling of the live subtitling.
And, for reasons that still aren't entirely clear, it was tuned to ITV something, which was full of loose women talking about triple-L lesbians (no, I've no idea, but from the context it seems like it might be a way to avoid saying 'bisexual') and the non-question of whether an ex still counts as a family member. Fortunately, this was a posh private clinic, and $doctor_of_obscure_conditions appeared to put us out of our misery on the dot of the appointment time.
No sportsball was observed, though my train did pass through Rugby, and for some reason contained a statistically significant number of young men with crates of beer. And we're reasonably sure it's not lupus.
[1] Which I appear to have become allergic to.