THE first edition of Scotsport SPL went down in legend. From the ponderous version of the classic theme tune to the bizarre finale of jumper-wearing journalist Graham Spiers playing some Elton John on a stray piano, it was a spectacular display of broadcasting ineptitude that media studies lecturers will be playing to horrified students for years to come. The cringe factor has never been so intense since that first edition, but Scotsport SPL continues to unite fans of all persuasions in their derision of its awfulness.

Yet I must confess to a sneaking affection for Scotsport SPL. For a start, it has rehabilitated the two men who provided the soundtrack to the football viewing of my childhood. Archie McPherson, with his bluster and laboured metaphors, may lack the slickness of modern-day contemporaries, but, like Brian Moore and Kenneth Wolstenholme, his is a distinctive football voice that is inextricably linked to many a classic clip. Jock Brown's love for the drama of football, meanwhile, is evident in his emphatic delivery and boyish incredulity at any feat of footballing skill. Albeit, he's a little more muted these days - perhaps because of the ignominy of his time at Celtic and his long exclusion from terrestrial TV - but he remains one of the greatest and most underrated of commentators.

Other innovations of Scotsport SPL are less easily defended. For a start there's the 11pm Monday night scheduling, which, along with the competition prizes - mostly tickets for matches outside Scotland - suggest the producers are trying to run down the game in this country rather than build its profile.

Then there's Karen O, the DJ whom programme-makers felt could be our answer to Gaby Yorath - failing to realise that Yorath is an effective presenter because of her knowledge and authority, not because she happens to have blonde hair and a pair of boobs. Julyan Sinclair, on the other hand, is an accomplished TV presenter - few know he once won a Bafta - but he obviously knows how maligned Scotsport SPL is, since he wears the look of a cabinet minister the paparazzi have found cottaging in the Downing Street loos.

That's before you get to the bewildering arrogance of Andy Walker and the embarrassment of the unfortunate footballers (usually youngsters shoved into the spotlight by their canny elders) taking on pointless challenges like Throw-in Throne, although producers seem to have finally copped on that this was sending viewers scurrying behind their settees. Most infuriatingly, the programme-makers stubbornly refuse to bow from pressure from viewers to show more highlights, and continue to sacrifice action replays for the inane observations of a studio of shell-shocked fans.

So why do I tune in so eagerly every Monday? Because Scotsport SPL sums of the essence of Scottish football, in the same way that the more polished coverage of Champions League and the English Premiership reflects the corporate sterility that has crept into football elsewhere.

The SPL has yet to be invaded en masse by the the prawn-sandwich brigade. The players, other than the Old Firm's top stars, earn little more than a decent professional wage and continue to live in much the same world as the fans who watch them. Most of the grounds in the SPL are still at the heart of their community, few clubs having yet felt the need to shoo their followers to characterless out-of-town sites. Branding, meanwhile, refuses to get much more sophisicated than mugs with club crests and bibs carrying the same "I'm the best dribbler at Pittodrie/Easter Road/Tannadice" that were on sale 20 years ago. The Scottish game retains a ramshackle enthusiasm that compels thousands of fans each week - just like Scotsport SPL.