"I CAN'T wait to see these bowls highlights at quarter to one in the morning," said absolutely no-one born after World War Two.
That might be a slight inflation of the age profile of the target audience. Yet claiming the graveyard slot recently vacated by the world pub darts championship is a coup in terms of drawing that growing cult of viewers riddled with secondary insomnia and random bladder control.
It's no secret older people actively fear sleep on a nightly basis - ergo end-to-end bowls on BBC2 providing a safe alternative to News 24 in between those kettle-to-bog relays which the majority have down to a fine art in this modern era.
That said, to be fair to the entire indoor bowls movement, their sport has also been known to provide some fine edge-of-the-commode entertainment at least once in a generation. David Corkhill and Jim Baker's see-saw rivalry of the mid-80s was simply different Bisto, according to research. These bowling behemoths from Belfast made the Coe/Ovett, Lendl/Edberg and Daddy/Haystacks frictions seem like cosy love-ins on their way to carving up the grand total of, er, one world indoor bowls crown between them, I believe.
Baker, with respect, would at least see a stadium built in his name somewhere off the M2 between the short mat Meccas of Ballyclare and Templepatrick. Corkhill, meanwhile, is still paying for his bagel of world singles titles as BBC2's voice of bowls at quarter-to-one in the morning every single Baltic January in life.
And so to this year's action without further ado. No sooner had a clunky montage of last year's kingpins hoisting a host of curious cups/bedpans whetted whistles for the 2016 Just Retirement World Championship than a lambswooled Rishi Persad - the thinking Gran's choice - was urging us not to go anywhere ahead of "some absolute crackers". There was nowhere else to go.
Potters Leisure Resort in the sport's Norfolk hotbed (electric blanket central) was the venue and there wasn't a spare dry seat in the house for Wednesday's second round games on what seemed to be a fairly tight and unforgiving blue pile. We're talking carpets here.
Hundreds of Ultras - orthapaedic boots and sedatives in place of Adidas Gazelles and Class Bs - had clearly tested their free bus passes to the hilt. Now here they all were, coughing and yinging their way through the first absolute cracker of the night between Scotland's defending six-time champ Alex Marshall MBE and 33-year-old English whippersnapper Mark Dawes, both passing for convincing ice cream men.
It proved to be a Tena-testing marathon on the yellow mats (who knows?), the match toing and froing like a pensioner on poitin bombs. Commentator Corkhill and his Scottish accomplice (they're always Scottish) were nearly wetting themselves with excitement. Professional empathy to a tee. God knows what state the aisles were in.
Marshall MBE eventually emerged victorious after a tiebreaker, cuing a mass stampede from the galleries to the loos that would have had Attenborough salivating like a rabid hound. Rishi couldn't believe the quality on offer either as he conducted the awkward post-match interviews with victor and vanquished on the sacred, and relatively dry, Axminster.
Next up was another cracker between Stu Anderson and Merv King followed by another cracker between Laura Thomas and Ellen Falkner. But not for me. A quick forehand drive up the stairs, a left-hand draw into the loo and a right-hand winner into the chariot it was.
The 82-year-old neighbour could tell me all about it in the morning. Provided God spared her.
