Sometimes it’s amazing what you’ll hear coming from your own television at the most mundane times. As I walked into my apartment the other day, a man’s voice on the television was saying: “Genitals are distended and patchy and covered with large red welts. Testicles are swollen, roughly three times the average size. Scrotum is filled with fluid … Maybe an infection of some kind.” “Either that,” a woman’s voice chimed in, “or this guy’s got the world’s ugliest Johnson.”

“Let me guess,” I said, entering the living room. “‘CSI’?”

It was, of course. It’s extraordinary how much dialogue on the “CSI” franchise is taken up with the discussion of people’s private parts. I think CBS should come clean and rename the shows “Genitalia: New York,” “Genitalia: Miami,” “Genitalia: Las Vegas,” and be done with it. That way, people would know what they were in for. If the producers wanted to branch out to entire nations, I’d suggest starting off with “Genitalia: Australia.” For a more romantic variant, I’m partial to “Pudenda: Vienna,” set in the early 20th century and replete with gorgeous architecture, Strauss waltzes, luscious pastries, and society ladies who are savagely murdered.

* * *

Streaming over the Internet from Britain’s Channel 4 came an interview with the novelist Martin Amis, though “interview” is perhaps too charitable a word. It was more like a minor inquisition on thought crimes — Mr. Amis’s, that is. Predictably, the thought crimes in question were against Islam, or “Islamism,” or Islamic (or Islamist) radicalism, terrorism, extremism — take your pick. In the 1980s, Mr. Amis was Britain’s hippest novelist on the planet and, in patches anyway, probably the funniest. His stock remained high during the 1990s but has declined since the turn of the new century. His novels have been trashed, his book on Stalinism (“Koba the Dread”) was dismissed as old hat, and now he has waded deep into the shark-and-Shariah infested waters of the conflict between Islam and the West. Mr. Amis’s “problem” is that he insists there is a conflict, whereas the done thing now, as an English friend told me earlier this year, is simply “to close your eyes and hope it will go away.”

The interview was with Jon Snow, a big name in Brit Land, and a Smooth Inquisitor if not quite a Grand one. Mr. Snow has gray hair and one of those unreadable bureaucratic faces that is perfect for his job, and he was seated at a black desk as long and slender as the wing of an airplane: pompous minimalism. As is so often the case when watching British television presenters, I found myself impressed by his articulateness and intelligence while concluding that he failed to make use of either attribute.

The immediate cause for the interview was an attack launched against Mr. Amis by the Marxist literary theorist Terry Eagleton, who recently compared him to a “British National Party thug” because, following news of a foiled terrorist plot to blow up 10 airliners over the Atlantic, he’d admitted to feeling “an urge” to see Muslims in Britain hounded and harassed by the police until they got “their house in order.”

Cynics would say that Mr. Amis is just stirring up controversy to promote his books. I doubt that, but it’s possible he needs his fix of public attention. Nonetheless, it was dismaying to see him being raked over the coals because, basically, he doesn’t like genocidal religious supremacists.

Of course, if you’re Mr. Amis, you possess both the press savvy and the verbal resources to handle yourself well, even when you’re twitching delicately in the dock. Everything of wit and intelligence was stated by him; everything petty and hypocritical came from Mr. Snow, who, faced with a lengthy essay on an important topic, spent all his time harassing Mr. Amis over a few ill-tempered sentences. What was particularly creepy was Mr. Snow’s attempt to question the notion that you can criticize “Islamism” — i.e., blowing people up — without impugning Islam itself, thus making it more or less impossible to say anything on the subject at all. And if one of Britain’s better novelists can now casually be labeled an “Islamophobe,” well, life goes on. He must be pushing 60 anyway. Heave-ho.

* * *

There was just enough time, before the clip cut off, to hear Mr. Snow introduce the next topic: soccer. And why not? It’s such a nice thing to talk about. Here’s an example. Last week, somewhere in Midtown, I passed a large shoe store, glanced at the sorry state of my footwear, and went in. I wandered around the first floor for a minute or two before realizing the men’s department was upstairs. As I was about to go up, I turned to my left and noticed an enormous, sleek, beautifully glossy, flat-screen TV on the opposite wall. A soccer game was in progress, with the sound turned off. It was Tuesday afternoon. “Ah,” I thought to myself, “that must be a UEFA Champions League game on ESPN2.”

Indeed it was. Next to me, a worker in the store, a man dressed in a suit and tie, was staring at the screen with rapt attention. “Is that Barcelona?” I asked, hesitating for a moment because the Spanish team was outfitted in yellow rather than its customary red-and-blue. It was. Barcelona versus Scotland’s Rangers. It was midway through the second half and the score was (surprise) 0–0. Barcelona’s Lionel Messi, an electric eel in a human frame, was darting down the field toward the Rangers goal and then was promptly tripped up.

“Messi’s fantastic,” I said. “He’s fast,” the salesman agreed. “How’s Ronaldinho doing?” I asked. “Not so good. He’s not the same player anymore.” “So you’re a soccer fan,” I offered, stating the obvious. “Yes.” “Where are you from?” “Senegal.” “Ah — d’accord,” I replied, showcasing my incredible grasp of the French language.

We stood and followed the game, chatting, for about 10 minutes. It may have been the most pleasurable time I spent in front of a television all week, if only because of the unexpected human connection.

bbernhard@nysun.com