There had been chatter and wisecracks, the blare of duelling commentaries from 12 screens, despairing grunts, jubilation, constant motion between green-room and editing suites, the hubbub of work. And then, when time reached the point it was always ticking towards, when the countdown of four minutes, three, two, one had ceased, there is a silence so sudden and profound that it is breathtaking.

Perhaps the moment lasts for 30 seconds. Three very famous men twitch and stretch, mouth their first lines, no longer footballers but broadcasters. Fingers are poised over buttons, hands grip cameras. And then the brass section starts, piercing the dead, heavy nothing and this is not just a television studio. It is Match of the Day. Sharper now, tighter, but still home.