I’ve discovered that the urge to write comes far more naturally to me when life is smooth and the pressure is off. Since the start of April, and the abrupt hijacking of my life by the ever-intensifying Project From Hell, this urge has been steadily dwindling. I’m enjoying blogging more as a consumer and occasional commenter than I am as a creator.

I would very much like to be creatively motivated by angst, stress and tension – three fine and noble muses – but I’m finding that I don’t work that way.

However, it would be a mistake to regard what I have just said as too much of a sweeping statement. I still have my moments. In fact, all things considered, I still have plenty of them. Well, enough to be going on with for the time being, at any rate.

These things will pass, and I will still be here, blogging away to greater or lesser extents, in that endearingly eccentric, erratic and unpredictable fashion which has become my distinguishing hallmark the world over, hem hem.

Dymbellina has a friend who, like me, is not much of a one for the old football. And so it came to pass that yesterday lunchtime, with the “sports bars” of Nottingham city centre packed to the gills and its streets deserted, she instead found herself in Marks and Spencers. The store was exceptionally quiet, and populated mainly by little old ladies having a peaceful pootle around.

Suddenly, an announcement over the tannoy. We would just like to inform our customers that England have been awarded a penalty against Argentina.

Silence. The entire shop stops what it was doing and freezes in expectation.

We are happy to inform our customers that David Beckham has just scored a goal for England, giving them a one-nil lead against Argentina.

The entire shop bursts into applause. The little old ladies are cheering, clapping and whooping with delight. Startling, surreal, silly, and really rather sweet.

The Troubled Diva Old Curiosity Box - Item 20.
Double Dee & Steinski - Lesson One (The Payoff Mix) (1984)

I had this for years on a dusty cassette, taped from a Berlin radio station, so was delighted when it popped up on Napster a couple of years ago. Containing far too many copyright infringements ever to be granted an official release, this hugely influential track was originally put together for a "best remix" competition on a New York radio station - the original track being Play That Beat Mr. DJ by G.L.O.B.E. & Whiz Kid (of Afrika Bambaataa's Soul Sonic Force). It won the competition, and became a cult rarity thereafter. At the time, no-one had ever attempted to sample other people's records in this manner before - but three years later, Coldcut, M/A/R/R/S, Bomb The Bass and heaps of others were churning out a string of highly successful 12-inchers using the techniques pioneered here.

The Troubled Diva Old Curiosity Box - Item 21.
Justified Ancients Of Mu Mu - The Queen And I (1987)

More sampling, more copyright infringement, and more extreme rarity. This is taken from the debut album by the act who went on to be the KLF: 1987 - What The F**k's Going On?. This particular track, which makes heavy use of Abba's Dancing Queen, was the main reason why the album was quickly withdrawn from sale and deleted - but not before I snapped up my copy in the week of release (it's now the most valuable piece of vinyl in my personal collection).

When the album came out, I had just started a regular DJ-ing gig at The Garage in Nottingham. I badly wanted to play this track, but never quite had the nerve; it is quite extreme, and I was scared of clearing the floor. I once got as far as having it cued up on the second turntable, before changing my mind and putting on Abba's original instead. This was just before Abba came back into acceptability, and when playing Dancing Queen was still quite a strange thing to do. My crowd lapped it up, and Dancing Queen became one of my fail-safe anthems for the next couple of years. So thanks to the JAMMs for that.

Update: Sorry - you weren't quick enough. These MP3s are no longer on my server. I generally make them available for a week or so (sometimes less) before substituting them for new ones. Better luck next time!

GOOAAAALLLL!!!!!!!!!!

Sorry. In an almost deserted office, I'm just trying to get into the spirit.

Sometimes, I just despair at this country. Hilarious, though...and right up there with "Is there chicken in chickpeas" and "I love blinking, I do".

Peter made a list of people he would have been good at, and another list of people he could never have been. He then asked others to do the same. Never one to resist such primal urges (a lust for lists surely resides at the very core of my being), here are my own choices.

People I would have been good at…

• John Peel (Laconic wit, with an insatiable appetite for challenging new music)
  
• Angus Deayton (I’m with Peter here. Ironic autocue technique? Can do!)
  
• Anne Robinson (Unfair bitchy putdowns? I can do ‘em in my sleep!)
  
• Claire Short (Tactlessly opinionated, constantly landing herself in hot water as a result? Where do I sign up?)
  
• The Cowboy Out Of Village People (Only talents required: wearing a check shirt and grinning. Which happen to be two of my greatest life skills. See top left hand corner)
  
• Tara Palmer-Tomkinson (Conspicuous consumption? Shopping as self-definition? Give me the plastic and let me do the job!)
  
• Sada, Penny or Lynne (It takes a certain je ne sais quoi to be the first Big Bro evictee)
  
• Julian Clary (Filthy double entendres of a homosexualist nature? Piece of piss. I’m not K’s partner for nothing, you know)
  
• Terry Wogan (Waspish Eurovision commentary? I might just about be able to manage that...)
  
• Christopher “Liquid News” Price (That show could be all mine. Mine, I tell you!)
  
• David Furnish (Elton’s hubbie. Hell, I already am David Furnish...)

People I could never have been…

• Delia Smith (Can’t cook, won't cook)
  
• Jeremy Clarkson (Can’t drive, won't drive)
  
• Frank Bruno (Can’t fight, won't fight)
  
• David Blaine (Can’t stand heights)
  
• David Ginola (Can’t kick a ball, and I couldn’t do the hair)
  
• Alan Titchmarsh (Every green/floral thing I touch instantaneously withers and dies in my hands)
  
• David Hasselhof ({Possibly the worst fit of the lot. Knight Rider? See Jeremy Clarkson above. Baywatch? Can’t swim a stroke. Another Ginola problem re. the hairdo, and I could never stomach all that Schlagermusik...)

This evening's mantra:

I must not blog about work. I must not blog about work. I must not blog about work.

However, stuck here in the office on my own at 20.45, chasing an impossible deadline, I am sorely tempted. No, remember Dooce, remember Luke, remember all those others, and keep chanting:

I must not blog about work. I must not blog about work. I must not blog about work.

Well, East Coast girls are hip, I really – ouch, my ears, my ears!

I’ve been greatly looking forward to seeing ex-Beach Boy Brian Wilson perform in Nottingham this Friday – after all, it’s not often that a bona fide living legend comes to town. So it came as quite a shock to witness his bizarre performance on Monday night’s televised Golden Jubilee concert at Buckingham Palace. I know that he is routinely described as being of a “fragile” sensibility, and l know I should make allowances, but dear me, he really was away with the fairies. Ronald Reagan meets Jess “Stars On Sunday” Yates, via Peter Sellers in Being There. And ohhh, that flat, toneless singing voice, which managed to systematically murder some of the best pop songs ever written (God Only Knows and Good Vibrations in particular).

The only charitable explanations are that a) fragile Brian was overwhelmed by the vastness of the occasion, b) he and his band didn’t have a chance to warm up properly beforehand, and c) the stage monitors weren’t working properly, so that he couldn’t hear his own voice on stage. I strongly suspect that c) was affecting a lot of the acts, as the standard of vocal performances was fairly uniformly wretched throughout. Why, even Shirley Bassey went off-key during Goldfinger, and Miss Bassey simply doesn’t do off-key, darlings.

I’m keeping my fingers crossed for Friday night, when Brian Wilson is rumoured to be playing the entire Pet Sounds album in sequence, during the second half of his show. Some pieces of music are simply too precious to be f***ed up. I shall be remembering Brian in my prayers this week.

So, it’s back to the hotel for a change of outfit (Eurovision night simply won’t be the same unless I am wearing my swanky rainbow-striped Etro shirt!), and back out to the Saku Suurhall for the second time today. Hooking up with Chig and the four others (the other four have returned to Helsinki), I discover some further welcome news. The tickets that had been reserved for us were “restricted view” only – although near the front of the hall, our view would have been obstructed by some of the larger boom cameras. However, on returning to the box office to pick up and pay for the tickets, some of our group had been approached by an Estonian who wanted to sell her own tickets, at the same price. These tickets are slap bang in the centre of the main floor, with an excellent view of the stage and of the giant video screens. Many other visiting Eurovision fans have paid a great deal more for considerably inferior seats. Our good fortune has become almost embarrassing.

No alcohol for us now! We don’t want to waste a single second of tonight’s show on anything as mundane as toilet breaks. Milling round the bars and souvenir stalls, we notice the grey metal commentators’ boxes arranged around the edge of the arena. They look like nothing more than filing cabinets. Surely our beloved Terry Wogan can’t have been consigned to anything this grim? We decide to go Hunting For Wogan. Sure enough, on a higher level in the arena, we find the BBC commentary box. It is an altogether grander affair than the filing cabinets below (which must have been allocated to obscure Balkan satellite channels and the like). Through a half-opened door, we espy the back of Wogan’s head, and duly pay our homage. Mission accomplished.

During the final fifteen minute countdown to the show, the giant screens show a selection of past Eurovision favourites. Sandie Shaw, Cliff Richard, Brotherhood Of Man and Bucks Fizz give us a chance to practise our flag twirling. I discover that the optimum twirling technique involves tracing a slow, graceful arc back and forth. Anything too vigorous, and the flag starts rolling itself up. We also have an enormous Union Jack, requiring all six of us to hold it up. This should look good on TV – and indeed, with judicious use of slow-mo and freeze-frame, it is possible to spot us several times over. Or rather, it is possible to spot our flag; we are holding it so high that our faces are entirely concealed behind it. Jeez, I can’t believe that I’m doing this.

And so – at last! – to the show itself.

1 – Cyprus. Gimme: One.

We had been promised hot boyband totty, and raunchy shirt shredding halfway through the song. As it was, the tops all stayed on – which was probably for the best, given the slightly raddled state of the talent on display. In the X Baar later on, we all agreed that there was only one member of the five piece act for whom we would Give It Up. This was settled by means of much furious finger-jabbing at the TV screen near the bar. In fact, fingers were being jabbed so furiously that the bar owner eventually came out and told us off (“Don’t touch!”). Boyband Finger Jabbing Brit Shame: it’s hardly on a par with football hooliganism, is it?

2 – United Kingdom. Come Back: Jessica Garlick.

Jessica was my favourite of the female Pop Idol finalists, and we all thought she acquitted herself magnificently (despite the flimsy little piece of fringed nothingness she was wearing, and despite those frightful little pink boots in particular). Unlike so many contemporary pop acts (Steps being the worst offenders), Jessica gave an emotionally appropriate rendition of the sad, yearning, desperate lyric, rather than grinning her way inanely through it. The performance was warmly received in the hall. Too restrained to be a potential winner, but clearly a candidate for a respectably high placing.

3 – Austria. Say A Word: Manuel Ortega.

Manuel later won the title of Sexiest Man In The Contest, in our snap straw poll in the X Baar. A lovely little mover to be sure, but the song was a dog, with the most annoyingly repetitive chorus in living memory. It also had exactly the same chord structure as Free’s All Right Now. There’s even an MP3 bootleg knocking around somewhere which merges the two, just to illustrate the point.

4 – Greece. S.A.G.A.P.O – Michalis Rakintzis.

One of the show’s two bona fide “water cooler” moments, this had everyone in our office talking about it on Monday morning. Eurovision electroclash, no less! A bunch of leather clad stormtroopers galumph about the stage in formation, growling “GIVE THE PASSWORD”. Now look, Michalis: we have a clearly defined Acceptable Usage Policy to cover such matters. Under no circumstances are we permitted to divulge our passwords to third parties, no matter how gruffly you bark at us. I dare say things might be very different in Greece, but your tactics cut no ice with us here.

5 – Spain. Europe’s Living A Celebration – Rosa.

Never mind Jessica Garlick - as the winner of Operacion Triunfo (Spanish TV’s version of Pop Idol), Rosa is the direct equivalent of our Will Young. Not only that, but the Spanish equivalents of Gareth, Darius, Zoe and Hayley are performing as her backing singers. And as if that wasn’t enough, Rosa is a champion slimmer to boot! In the preview video, you can trace her “emotional journey”, all the way from fat-with-bad-hair to thin-with-gorgeous-hair. One is inescapably reminded of Ricki Lake. With credentials like these, plus an irresistibly bouncy piece of Latino-froth like …Celebration, how could she fail?

This thinking is clearly shared by the huge Spanish contingent within the hall, who have been conducting massed laps of honour round the main floor of the auditorium before the start of the show, flags aloft, in a raucous display of premature triumphalism which simply screams “hubris”. A large chunk of that contingent is situated directly behind us, making its presence vocally felt and attempting to stop Chig from standing up for the UK entry. Come the Spanish entry, and they are of course all on their feet, punching the air and roaring for Rosa at the top of their lungs. As they continue to do at random occasions throughout the evening. “RRRROOOSSSAAA!!!” When, during the voting, it becomes apparent that Rosa doesn’t have a hope in hell of winning (she limps in tenth), the entire contingent leaves the hall early in disgust. Dashed unsporting, if you ask me.

6 – Croatia. Everything I Want – Vesna Pisarović.

A dull song, but Vesna delivers a captivating performance none the less, with her whips and chains and stuff. Looking round the hall, we are unable to spot a single Croatian flag, and so make a collective decision to support Vesna by giving her our wildest applause. We are almost the only ones who rise to our feet at the end of the song, and Vesna duly flashes us her brightest smile. In the X Baar later on, Vesna is voted Sexiest Woman In The Contest. Maybe it was the whips and chains which swung it; anyhow, I am sure that she would be thrilled at this news.

7 – Russia. Northern Girl – Prime Minister.

The other “water cooler” act of the night. We were expecting Russia’s premier boyband, and instead we got…this. I suspect that the big fella with the shades ‘n braids will be appearing on “ironic” videoclip montages for many years to come. Oh, and what a disappointment to realise that they weren’t singing “Northern girl, frosty eyes, I wanna mount you baby” after all…

8 – Estonia. Runaway – Sahlene.

Tumultuously received in the hall, despite many adverse factors. Firstly, Sahlene delivers the entire song from a spur extension to the main stage, which actually places her within the audience, behind the front few rows. As a result, the giant screens either side of the stage are now in shot, and so are switched off, thus preventing us from seeing Sahlene’s performance in close-up. As the home crowd audience are now all on their feet, we cannot actually see Sahlene at all, except for the occasional glimpse between the bobbing heads and shoulders in front of us. But most damningly of all, there is not one single Estonian actually on the stage. Sahlene is apparently a Swedish singer (of no great repute) who was drafted in at the last moment after the original singer (Ines, of 2000’s fantastic Once In A Lifetime) refused the song. Once appointed, Sahlene promptly sacked all her Estonian backing singers/musicians, replacing them with her own Swedish crew. This has not gone down too well in Estonia. Nevertheless, Sahlene’s rousing performance goes down an absolute storm, and we seriously wonder whether Estonia could do it for a second year running (it eventually places third equal with the UK).

9 – FYR Macedonia. Oд Hаc Зависи – Karolina.

Every year, there are one or two entries which remain, despite repeated exposure, utterly unmemorable. This is one of them. It would take more than a gold bustier and a voluminous red skirt to shove FYROM up the ratings. Bye bye FYROM – see you in 2004!

10 – Israel. Light A Candle – Sarit Hadad.

Unbelievably, the composer of this ghastly schlock was also responsible for Dana International’s Diva in 1998. How are the mighty fallen. Okay, so it was always going to be a tough gig for Sarit Hadad to perform a “peace anthem” in the light of recent events between Israel and the Palestinians, all of which took place after the song had been selected. I also reminded myself that Israel’s Eurovision entries have traditionally emerged from the secular part of Israeli society, and that maybe – just maybe – Sarit’s performance could encapsulate a sincere desire for peace from that sector of the population. Indeed, at the dress rehearsal she had given an understated yet intense performance (I was watching her eyes). It was just about believably sincere, and bordered on being moving. In short, I wished her well.

But, oh dearie dearie me. As Sarit swung into the first chorus (“Light a candle, light a candle with me, a thousand candles in the dark will open up our hearts”), both groups of Israeli supporters, on either side of the hall, simultaneously switched on little pocket torches and held them aloft, swaying along in time. The effect was cringeworthy in the extreme, and shockingly misjudged. I looked at Sarit. Insincere showbiz schmaltz simply poured from her, as the massed “candles” twinkled on either side. Ugh. Please, please don’t let this win.

11 – Switzerland. Dans Le Jardin De Mon Âme – Francine Jordi.

A slow grower, which deserved rather better than its abysmal score on the night. Maybe Francine (a likeably gamine performer) should have entered the stonking trance remix of the song instead.

12 – Sweden. Never Let It Go – Afro-Dite.

Gladys! Blossom! Kayo! As Heat magazine so aptly put it: the oven ready Three Degrees! So sassy in your bacofoil and tit tape! With your fabulous retro-disco stomper which wowed me from the off when I first heard it on Melodifestivalen all those weeks ago! How dearly I would love to return to Stockholm in 2003!

But not on the strength of this woeful performance. Girls, girls, I died a thousand deaths for you. You let yourselves get over-excited by the rapturous crowd and the vast worldwide TV audience. You needed a bit of discipline, a bit of restraint, and a lot more polish.

Jump to next part.

Labels: eurovision, eurovision2002

Saturday, late morning. Chig and I finally haul our asses out of bed, and into a taxi. Destination: the Saku Suurhall, out on the edge of town. After five hours’ sleep and no breakfast, I am feeling surprisingly together. The hangover can be postponed for another day at least. Right now, I have more pressing things to do than yield to the ravages of sleep deprivation, alcohol abuse, and sore extremities. While all eight of the skinheads are “doing” the old city today, I have decided to chance my luck on nabbing a ticket for this afternoon’s dress rehearsal. It seems fairly unlikely – after all, Eurovision tickets generally sell out months in advance, for the dress rehearsals as well as for the finals. But the word on the street is that I might get lucky.

Chig disappears into the press enclosure, to see what he can find out. We arrange to meet in half an hour. I wander round the enormous shopping mall that adjoins the concert hall, eventually settling down for some long overdue breakfast of herring salad and Coca-Cola. Looking up, I see Chig slowly walking towards me, his face a mask of gloom. Shit. Hey, it was worth a try.

“Let’s face it,” he says. “It was always going to be a long shot, getting tickets this late in the day.” I grunt in affirmation.

“But…guess what!” Chig has suddenly brandished a ticket, and is waving it in front of me, grinning from ear to ear. Evil, evil bastard! I let out a shriek of unalloyed, ecstatic delight. For some strange reason (probably just the remnants of the booze), I suddenly find myself wanting to kiss his feet. I only just manage to restrain myself. So, I shall go to the ball!

Walking back to the hall, we pass a chunky blonde muscle boy in a tight sleeveless T-shirt and shorts. One of the Latvian backing dancers, Chig tells me. Ooh, my first Eurovision celeb spot of the weekend! Okay, so we’re somewhat stretching the definition of “celeb” here. But then this is Eurovision, where different laws apply. Where naff becomes cool, where cheesy becomes uplifting, where nationalistic flag-waving becomes fun, and where strangers strike up conversations with each other in gay bars, without an underlying sexual agenda.

Chig already has a seat in the press section of the hall, so I shall be watching the rehearsal on my own. He disappears off to the separate press entrance, as I stumble through the airport style security at the main entrance (now accompanied by Brandy and D, who seem to have materialised from somewhere or other). At this point, overwhelmed with the unexpected excitement of the moment (I still can’t believe I’m actually here!), my hangover attempts to kick in, and I begin to feel quite disorientated and giddy. I make a complete hash of the airport security. Once inside the hall (reassuringly compact, compared to the vastness of the previous two years), my powers of conversation almost desert me entirely. I am reduced to standing there, beer in hand (well, why not?), simpering dumbly at Brandy and D, and secretly rather looking forward to a nice quiet sit down in a darkened room for the next few hours.

Inside the arena, there are a surprisingly large number of empty seats. I quickly shuffle round to a more favourable position: dead centre, towards the back, slightly raised above the main floor. With nobody on either side of me, I maintain a slightly detached approach towards the proceedings. The atmosphere is cheerful, but somewhat restrained – after all, this is still a rehearsal rather than the real thing. It becomes quite apparent that we are spectators at the recording of a TV programme, rather than an audience at a concert. Still, there are warm receptions for most of the acts – especially for the home team, and for neighbouring Finland (my initial favourite from several weeks back, Addicted To You). The quality of the performances is high, with a particularly strong showing from Malta (7th Wonder). Germany’s Corinna May (I Can’t Live Without Music) and Spain’s Rosa (Europe’s Living A Celebration) are also very well received, whipping up as much of a party atmosphere as is possible this Saturday afternoon. However, I am disappointed by Sweden’s Afro-Dite, who seem all over the place – a messy, over-enthusiastic performance which badly lacks polish. Last night in the Ring Club, I had blogged in support of Sweden at #1, Malta at #2, Lithuania #3 (the latter two being the slow growers of the final week). Now, I have absolutely no idea who is going to win this thing. None of the performances have shouted “Winner!” at me. Maybe Spain, Estonia, Finland, France, Germany, Malta or Lithuania. Maybe even Israel’s cloying peace anthem (although this was booed by some of the people around me). Maybe even our own Jessica Garlick, who did a bloody good job with Come Back.

There are some niggles. The acoustic in the hall is clearly favouring ballads over the more uptempo numbers, which can sound rather muddy by comparison. Also, some of the camera work is decidedly eccentric. Seemingly every time that a song reaches the first line of its chorus – the potential “money shot” of each performance – the camera pans right away, sweeping round the stage and the front few rows, denying the viewer the opportunity of seeing the singer deliver the song’s main hook line. It breaks the intensity of the performance, almost fatally in some cases. Nevertheless, it’s a hugely enjoyable spectacle, boding well for a cracking show tonight.

As the rehearsal moves from the interval act to the first set of voting (from Cyprus), you can feel the audience automatically re-focussing themselves, sharpening their concentration in anticipation of the drama to come. What everyone has temporarily forgotten is that these aren’t real votes. It is traditional in dress rehearsals for each country to be told in advance how to vote, so that at the end of the contest, all participating countries end up with an equal score. This is a highly sensible way of checking the whole process, but it’s also about as much fun to watch as the test card. Gradually, as reality dawns, the trickle of exiting spectators becomes a flood.

Chig, Brandy, D and I meet up at the pre-appointed spot, and grab a cab to the old town hall square in the city centre, where we join seven of the eight skinheads at a pavement café (the eighth is still sleeping off his hangover, even at this late hour). Their table is already decked out in the flags of several different countries. Much beer is being quaffed. There is already a large crowd in front of the giant video screen, which is relaying interviews with the performers and SMS quizzes on Eurovision trivia. Five hours before kick off, a party atmosphere is already building. It’s going to be a great night.

The skins are a bit freaked. Sightseeing round the old town earlier on, they encountered a group of Estonian skinheads coming the other way – who, in an excruciatingly misplaced attempt at a fraternal greeting, promptly Sieg Heiled them. How exactly do you explain to a large group of Neo-Nazis that actually, you are re-appropriating and re-contextualising masculine dress codes in a post-modern, semi-ironic manner which betrays complex fetishistic undertones? What is the Estonian for “It’s a London gay thing, you scary bunch of meatheads”? No matter. There are, however, a couple of distinct little fascistic clumps at the edges of the square. In the midst of such cheerful internationalism (there are flags everywhere), they look irrelevant, powerless, pathetic.

There is another, more interesting buzz going round the square. Apparently – astonishingly – there are still some unsold tickets left for tonight’s final. With tickets priced way above the pockets of most Estonians, there has been something of a miscalculation. Now, with the embarrassing prospect of empty seats being beamed to the international TV audience, prices are dropping (remember that they had started off at a prohibitive £180 each to non-Estonians). It might be worth an exploratory jaunt back to the Saku Suurhall. What does the group think?

The group hum and hah a bit, then settle on a maximum of £25 per ticket. If we can get them for that price or less, then count us in. A couple of the group collect up the necessary EEKs and head off to the taxi rank. A long, long wait ensues, during which I take a late lunch. Eventually, someone’s mobile rings. Tickets are available at £50 each. Is anybody still interested?

Oh, you betcha. The instruction goes back loud and clear: buy, buy, buy! I can scarcely believe our luck. For the second time today: we shall go to the ball!

Jump to next part.

Labels: eurovision, eurovision2002