The Troubled Diva Old Curiosity Box - Item 22.
Bobby Charles - Small Town Talk (1973)

The Troubled Diva Old Curiosity Box - Item 23.
Bill Withers - Lonely Town, Lonely Street (1973)

Two juicy slices of urban summertime soul from 1973 which, for once, speak for themselves. There ain't no love in the heart of the city...

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!

The wait is over. Chapter 6 of the Naked Novel, by Caitlin Lyon, is finally here - and it's a real cracker. All the major plot strands start coming together, as the tension builds and builds. It's a pacy page-turner, and no mistake!

There’s something in the air this week. Nearly everyone I’ve spoken to has talked about their loss of Oomph. Is it a national phenomenon, I wonder? Is the UK in general suffering from a National Oomph Deficit?

For the temporarily Oomphless – myself included, it has to be said – here are some (fairly fatuous) suggestions.

1. Follow the “tough love” advice that my dear late father was so fond of giving: Just bloody well pull yourself togther and snap out of it! Nope, this never worked for me, either.

2. Intensive physical exercise is alleged to have Oomph-restoring properties. I have my doubts about this. These doubts may well be misplaced, but I’d prefer to cling to them all the same, thank you.

3. Fake it. Create the illusion of Oomph, even if you’re actually running on empty. If you fake it for long enough, you’ll eventually forget you’re faking it – the Oomph will be real. This has worked for me in the past, albeit temporarily. Useful for dealing with unavoidable short-term situations.

4. Surrender to your Oomphlessness. Indeed, luxuriate in it. Hey, who needs Oomph anyway? Buy yourself a copy of Diversions #1: A Late Junction Compilation: compiled and mixed by Verity Sharp, run a hot bath, and wallow. Rent Monsoon Wedding, open a decent bottle of Vouvray, and call-screen. Watch Big Brother 3 and enjoy the ensuing feelings of superiority. Even watch the football, if you must. Passivity is the key here.

Clearly, #4 is my preferred solution. Every time.

For Fraser's review at Blogjam, go here.
For Lilou's review (in French, but well worth the effort) at blogmebogmoi, go here.

As you know, I was worried about this one. Brian Wilson may have been one of pop’s greatest creative geniuses in his day, but that day has long passed. He has been dogged by mental health problems for the past 35 years, and is regularly described as “fragile”. His flat, strange, autocue-driven performance at the Buckingham Palace concert earlier in the week had made me squirm. According to our local paper, this was the most expensive concert ever to take place in Nottingham, with tickets at a whopping fifty quid a pop. Had we shelled out all that dosh, only to bear witness to an embarrassing karaoke freak show?

The opening number (Cabinessence from the 20:20 album, I later discover) is one of the most bewildering and disorientating things I have ever heard on stage. The acoustic is terrible, the sound separation is hopeless, the song is decidedly odd, Brian is an eccentric a figure as he had been on TV, and I just can’t make sense of any of it. This is not a good start.

Obscure album track follows obscure album track. I don’t know any of this stuff - unlike Dymbel and Mir, who recognise every song. Mir in particular is a true Wilson fanatic – this is someone who has both mono and stereo versions of the same original EPs, for instance. Both of them have already seen Brian at the Royal Festival Hall earlier in the year. They know what to expect, and have briefed me accordingly. I am therefore still making huge allowances for the man.

Actually, he’s doing OK. Yes, so there are two autocue screens, mounted on either side of his keyboard – but when you’re an acid casualty survivor with short term memory problems, what are you supposed to do? Without the safety net of an autocue to fall back on, he probably wouldn’t be touring at all. Yes, so his performance style is strange, especially the rather literal hand movements he uses to illustrate the lyrics (tickling the corner of his eye at the word “crying”, for instance). However, his very fragility serves to expose the child within the man, making for a sincere, unaffected, and genuine performance, unvarnished by conscious stage techniques. There is another advantage to this. Wilson’s childlike nature means that, aged 59, he can still get away with singing songs of innocent, youthful wonderment, without ever striking a metaphorical false note. As for the literal, audible false notes – well, we know his voice isn’t what it once was, but there are no major wince-making mistakes, and whatever he lacks in physical technique is made up for in emotional acuity.

Dymbel and Mir assure me that, compared to the London gig, Brian is on top form tonight. Returning to our seats after the interval, Dymbel is even able to convey this to Brian’s wife, who is sitting three seats away from me (on the sixth row of the stalls), along with her sister, Brian’s best friend and his wife. Maybe it’s their presence which is helping to sharpen his focus – apparently there had been times in London when he had looked half asleep. He is also smiling a lot more. In fact, he looks luminously happy throughout – as well he might be, as tonight’s crowd are hugely enthusiastic, with frequent standing ovations between songs. Mrs. Wilson is particularly demonstrative and supportive, rising to her feet after every number and extending her outstretched arms to him, willing him on.

The night starts clicking into place for me with the first number I recognise, In My Room. It is performed exquisitely well, with beautiful backing harmonies from the band, and takes me straight back to the summer of 1975, when my room was my sanctuary, my album collection was almost my whole life, and my Best Of The Beach Boys LP was never off the turntable. The unexpected poignancy touches me deeply. The acoustic and the sound mix have also been steadily improving, and the performers and audience have begun to create a mood which is very special. The other highlights of the first part of the show are a rapturously received Heroes And Villains and Surf’s Up, concluding with Do It Again, our first proper knees-up of the night.

So, with Part One having pleased the diehard fans with interestingly selected back catalogue material, it’s time for some more familiar stuff. Accordingly, Part Two consists of a straight run-through of the Pet Sounds album from beginning to end, followed by Good Vibrations. With the possible exception of the title track, which is a bit of a mess, It is a magnificent performance, with I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times (how true, how true!) as its standout moment. During God Only Knows, I observe each member of the superb ten-piece backing band. Their expressions say it all. They are lost in the music, absolutely loving what they are doing, and presumably aware of the honour they have in recreating some of the greatest pop music ever recorded. The band radiate good-humoured enjoyment throughout. You sense that this is a happy tour.

You also sense, with relief, that Brian is not the re-animated zombie that you were worried he might have been. Rather than being pushed around from venue to venue, and being told what to do by those around him, he is clearly in artistic control here. The song selections are his, the band is his, and it is his presence which sets the mood for everyone else on stage. However, the band have successfully made one request, as I Know There’s An Answer becomes Hang Onto Your Ego once again (to my initial confusion, until Dymbel explains). This pleases the fans no end.

Part Three is devoted to uptempo, celebratory Beach Boys classics: Help Me Rhonda, I Get Around, Fun Fun Fun, Barbara Ann, Surfing USA, stuff like that. We’re all on our feet, frugging away, rolling back the years. The man has delivered in spades. This is one living legend who hasn’t let us down. The legend remains intact.

Labels: top25

It's all going off on Gabriel Batistuta's guestbook this afternoon (he's some sort of Argentinian football player, apparently). Hundreds and hundreds of abusive messages from gloating Brits, with dozens more being added by the minute. Thoroughly nasty, depressingly puerile, but hideously fascinating all the same, and a prime example of the Online Disinhibition Effect.

Damo Suzuki’s Network – Nottingham Social – Tuesday June 11.

Former singer with 70s “krautrockers” Can, playing his first gig outside London in fifteen years, watching Damo was well weird. Stereoboard and I decided that there was a fine line between Genius and Tedious, and that Damo was straddling it precariously throughout.

He was certainly on stage for a very, very long time – well in excess of two hours, not coming off stage till around half past midnight. The band’s first four numbers were all around thirty minutes long, with the concluding fifth number and the ska-tinged encore being somewhat shorter.

The music was unique - conventional yet experimental, accessible yet obtuse, melodic yet angular, disciplined yet self-indulgent. Out there on its own, impossible to categorise or indeed to form any meaningful comparisons. The pieces were episodic in nature; like several songs stitched together, except you couldn't see the join. There were many long instrumental passages, where Damo simply stood around, sticking his head forward and shaking his lengthy locks about in time-honoured “AC/DC at the school disco” fashion.

The crowd were on the sparse side, which was not surprising at £11.50 a ticket (for a venue which normally charges half that amount). As well as the usual crowd of clued-up Social devotees, there was also a sizeable contingent of unreconstructed hippies in their late forties (we even had our own "idiot dancer" down the front, maaan). Restrained applause during the set - unrestrained, wild applause at the end, but we were all very, very drunk by then (it had been a long and arduous haul).

During one of the final instrumental passages, Damo came down off the stage and went round hugging virtually every single member of the audience, myself and Stereoboard included. It was a lovely, big, warm, sincere, proper hug - if a little moist (especially in the hair department).

With his hippy/shoegazer past and his long-standing Stereolab fixation, Stereoboard loved the whole thing, almost without reservation. As for me: I loved it in parts and was bored stiff in other parts, but my main emotion was probably "perplexed" (and later, "pissed").

Now that Sandy has escaped the Big Brother house, his replacement will, as usual, have to conceal all recent facts about the outside world from the other housemates. In the light of this morning's events in Japan, this will be an exceptionally hard job - especially on Saturday morning, if the replacement is at all interested in the England/Denmark match. Will he be able to cope, I wonder?

Afterthought: maybe this won't be an issue after all. Since Sandy made his final decision to leave the house last night, Channel 4 will probably have put his potential replacement into immediate "quarantine", thus preventing him from knowing the outcome of this morning's matches.

More importantly: will the new housemate actually be a likeable and intelligent human being, with some clearly positive personality traits? Is this too much to hope for? Because, you know, this might add something to the diversity of the group. And frankly, I need something to keep me watching, other than my strangely developing crush on PJ.

Three completely unrelated links, which I've been meaning to post for a while now.

Croon is a place where you can log your musical memories. Submit a song, and an explanation of why that song was so personally special to you. Here are a couple of examples:When I get a moment, I'm going to submit a song of my own to the site - probably Halfway Hotel by Voyager, as it happens. Yes, I thought that might surprise you.

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That Le Tigre gig at The Social the other week was so damned perfect, that I have actually found it impossible to write about. Just as happiness is a poor subject for fiction, so perfection is maybe a poor subject for criticism. Maybe.

Or maybe there was just a strange alchemy that night, which was more than the sum of its parts, and which could never be successfully nailed down in prose.

Or maybe it's just that the band were shit hot, the crowd was cool and enthusiastic, the venue was right, and we were all in the right mood - as simple as that.

One thing I do know: at the end of the gig, band leader Kathleen Hanna asked us "Tell me - is it always so good in here? Is there always such a great atmosphere? Because if so, you guys are lucky - very lucky. In fact, you don't know how lucky you are."

Anyway, here's a Guardian review of the band which covers a lot of what I could have said. If you read it, you'll get the general idea.

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Finally, via Vaughan, a very good article on what the author terms the Online Disinhibition Effect. Clearly written and argued in straightforward language, it nails the phenomenon with great accuracy. Well, I related to it, at any rate; if Troubled Diva (and the 40 Days Project in particular) isn't the product of some sort of Online Disinhibition Effect, then I don't know what is.

Test your personal compatability with little old me. Should we, like, be together?

To set the standard, my darling K attained a score of 64% similarity and 80% compatability. If you can do better, than maybe we should talk...

Another "People I Know On Telly" Night:

1. On University Challenge Reunited, as part of the 1983 champion team from St. Andrews University: a recent former colleague ("now a senior systems analyst with an information solutions company").

2. On V. Graham Norton, as his first guest of the evening: The Only Girl I Ever Snogged.

OK: let me cheer you up with some Schadenfreude. This was my partner K's experience last Thursday.

Leave the house 5am. Flying to Leipzig via Munich. Sole purpose of trip: to give Important Presentation at Prestigious International Conference in front of Potentially Sceptical Audience, later the same day.

Decide to sleep for entire duration of first flight, before getting breakfast at Munich airport.

Arrive slightly late into Munich. Go straight to gate for connecting flight. Gate closed. Connecting plane should have waited. Major Lufthansa cock-up - other passengers also affected.

Go to transfer desk. Queue for 30 mins, while rude Swiss people push in front of the queue.

First connecting flight leaves Munich 30 mins after Important Presentation supposed to start in Leipzig. Important Presentation now due to start in under 4 hours. Cannot, under any circumstances, miss Important Presentation.

Ring contact in Leipzig, who says only option is taxi from Munich to Leipzig. Go to taxi rank. All taxis refuse the journey - too far, and they claim it will take 6 hours.

Ring contact again, and get her to talk to a taxi driver (lederhosen, smelly). Contact assures driver that journey only takes 3 hours. Driver persuaded. Journey will cost 300 quid, cash, upfront. Quick dash to cash machine and back.

3 hour taxi journey. Driver has not only never been to Leipzig before; he has never even been to the old East Germany before. Have still had nothing to eat or drink all day - feeling tense, panicky, weak, thirsty. No time to get refreshments during journey. Had planned to work on laptop during flight. Now obliged to do same work on laptop in back seat of smelly taxi, in state of high anxiety.

Taxi arrives at conference centre, and sails right past it. Major diversion required to get back to centre, including getting stuck in early rush hour traffic jam.

Walk into conference centre at 16.20, 10 minutes before start of talk at 16.30. No time to check laptop's compatibility with system in conference hall. No time for anything, in fact. Go straight in, plug in laptop and give presentation to Large Audience of Important International Scientists.

Laptop works - PowerPoint slides display OK. Presentation well received. Anticipated Scepticism does not materialise. Lively / interesting / stimulating question and answer session at end of talk.

At end of conference, finally taken out for meal. First and only meal of day turns out to be dreary flavourless stodge in typical East German "Kartoffelhaus" (= House Of Potatoes). Pretend to enjoy potatoes. Make conversation. Ponder existential futility of existence. Bed.

Jump straight to Part One.

I’ve started, so I might as well finish, right? After this, there will be no more mentions of Eurovision for a good long while. And that’s a promise.

After the ludicrous operatic interval (about which the less said the better), we launch into the second half of the contest with another big favourite:

13 – Finland. Addicted To You – Laura.

This year, in an act of uncharacteristic restraint, I waited until I had all the participating songs on MP3 before listening to them. I then played them all in a single sitting, and in performance order, so that I might judge them as they would be judged on the night. On the strength of a single play each, Addicted To You was my clear favourite to win. It was bright, breezy, engaging, with just enough musical substance to lift it above the competition. Unfortunately, it was also Finnish, and Finland’s track record in the contest has always been abysmal.

With the hall filled with enthusiastic Finns who had skipped across the Baltic to show their support, the song goes down a storm. However, there is something off-puttingly outré about Laura’s angular, gangly performance which would never connect to a sufficient degree with the international TV audience. Still, the chorus does provide us with our favourite “alternative lyric” of the weekend, as If you were a drug I’d be addicted to you mutates into If you weren’t in drag I’d put my dick into you. Fnarr fnarr!

14 – Denmark. Tell Me Who You Are – Malene.

Despite its disastrous showing in the voting, and despite the nondescript dreariness of the song, we rather enjoy Malene’s actual performance. Once again, she is out front on the spur extension, with the giant screens switched off. As the audience remain seated this time, and as we aren’t too far back, we can give our undivided attention to Malene herself, without the distractions of edits and differing camera angles. She really does give it her best shot, and deserved better.

15 – Bosnia-Herzegovina. Na Jastuku Za Doje – Maja.

Every contest has its “dull section”, and we are now into ours. Plenty of delights are yet to come, but for now we must sit politely through Maja’s competent but uninspired brand of soft-rock. Next!

16 – Belgium. Sister – Sergio & The Ladies.

I was expecting a lot more from sweaty old Tom Jones soundalike Sergio. I was expecting full-on, unabashed daftness, in the manner of Germany’s Stefan Raab in 2000 (anyone remember Wadde Hadde Dudde Da and the illuminated bikinis?). What we get is throaty, chugging pub-rock, with a somersault. It isn’t enough. Chubby geezers of a certain age may have ruled the roost for the past couple of years (Dave Benton, The Olsen Brothers), but their time has now firmly passed.

17 – France. Il Faut Du Temps – Sandrine François.

Yikes, another peace anthem – albeit with considerably more lyrical subtlety than Sarit Hadad’s earlier offering. Mind you, this still doesn’t prevent it from having one of the daftest couplets in the whole contest: Monsieur Ghandi est mort; est-il mort pour longtemps? Yup, I guess so.

This is the sort of “quality” power ballad which always gets the “true” Eurovision fans slavering at the chops and reminiscing fondly about the golden age of the early nineties, when we still had juries and orchestras and stuff. Personally, I always look back on that period as an extended gloopfest of uniform dreariness, with some of the contests barely containing a single uptempo entry. That Celine Dion still has a lot to answer for. Her sceptre still hangs over Il Faut Du Temps, which occasionally threatens to turn into The Power Of Love. Nevertheless, Sandrine is a likeable performer, exercising both dignity and restraint (qualities which have been in somewhat short supply this evening). Despite her best efforts, Il Faut Du Temps goes the way of all the “fan faves” in this age of televoting. Tant pis.

18 – Germany. I Can’t Live Without Music – Corinna May.

A hot favourite, this Bassey-does-disco belter goes rather tits-up on the night. Closely surrounding the blind-since-birth Corinna May with a troupe of energetically gyrating sexy dancers was maybe not the wisest of moves, as this merely serves to show up the singer’s awkwardness on stage. Shuffling uncertainly from side to side, repeatedly clenching and unclenching her microphone, the poor love looks a little lost. Tellingly, the final reprise clip of the song almost entirely edits her out, in favour of the sexy dancers. A shame, as I was really rather taken by the ludicrously overblown campery of the song itself.

19 – Turkey. Leylaklar Soldu Kalbinde – Buket Bengisu & Group Sapphire.

How can you not love a singer with a name like Buket Bengisu? Even if she does looks like Narinder from last year’s Big Brother, except with a wobblier mouth? Over the years, I have become a complete sucker for the Turkish entries, and their seemingly dogged determination to “keep it real” in an authentically Turkish stylee. This strategy, admirable in its refusal to pander to European popular tastes, will of course never, ever, give Turkey a winning song. I rather love them for that. This year’s offering has the added bonus of some rather nifty Swingle Singers style “doobedoobedoo” scatting, the likes of which haven’t been heard since Mana Mou (Cyprus 1997, and yes, I know too much).

20 – Malta. 7th Wonder – Ira Losco.

The week’s slow grower now comes fully into its own. If we could have voted, most of our little group would have voted for Malta’s sweet little ditty and its captivating delivery by lovely Ira, in her saucy “is she wearing underwear or not” lacy frock. There are also two killer features on offer tonight, which elevate the performance and help it to stick in the memory.

The first is where the music pauses and Ira softly whispers the word “reality”, before blowing a handful of glitter out into the audience. In the few seconds preceding this, she has had to reach deftly into her cleavage in order to retrieve said glitter. My spies have told me that this manoeuvre was taking far too long in rehearsal, making it look as if Ira was merely indulging in some extended tit groping. Thankfully, there are no such problems tonight.

The second is where Ira delivers the final chorus while making the long journey from the main stage out onto the spur extension, thus completing the song amidst the audience. This has the effect of bringing her close into the crowd, as if she has spontaneously chosen to Come
Amongst Us. We are of course deeply thrilled, and applaud wildly. Go Malta! Go Malta!

21 – Romania. Tell Me Why – Monica Anghel & Marcel Pavel.

Dearie me: it’s Dawn French and Mini-Me, as some wag memorably put it. Proper singers with powerful operatic voices, but mismatched to the point of comedy, and quite wasted on this terrible song. Why / goodbye / foolish lie / cold and dry / couldn’t we just try / reach the sky / yadda yadda yadda / bye bye bye. The voices do harmonise together wonderfully well on the final long note, though.

22 – Slovenia. Samo Ljubezen – Sestre.

Some of the video postcards have been particularly well matched to the countries that followed them. Each one is supposed to illustrate one aspect of Estonian life/culture, by means of a dramatised fairy tale and a concluding slogan. We therefore particularly liked the single word “Freedom” which was displayed on screen just before the Russian entry – no coincidence, surely. So, immediately prior to an act consisting of three drag queens dressed as air stewardesses, what slogan do we get? “Beautiful women.” But of course!

Sestre have spent the entire week in full costume and character. Not once have they appeared in public in man-drag – not even on arrival at Tallinn airport. Their choreography is a hoot, even incorporating a display of the plane’s emergency exits – but somehow, it’s not enough. After the initial moment of comedy has died down, I find my attention is wandering. The problem lies with the song. It is just not strong enough. Sorry, ladies!

23 – Latvia. I Wanna – Marie N.

We are now firmly in the “gender confusion” section of the contest. A trite little cod-Ricky Martin number (all cheesy Latin flourishes and ay-ay-ay-ay-ays), with some decidedly odd lyrics (You make me sweat in my emotions under your fly-away, fly-away wing) is saved by very clever, very witty, highly professional choreography.

Our Marie is dressed in a white jacket and trousers, with a matching white fedora, in true Victor Victoria fashion. This allows Marie to flirt shamelessly with one of her lady dancers, who – guess what? – thinks she has been pulled by a hot Latino stud. Saucy lesbo action alert!

Next up is the chunky blonde muscle boy who I saw earlier (his name is Guntris, fact fans), who also thinks he’s on for some hot Latino stud action. So much so that as Marie stands behind him, he bends right over, beaming out at us in greedy expectation as he assumes the requisite prone position for a major shag up the jacksie. Ooh, missus!

However – and this is the twist in the tail, viewers – Marie is quickly being disrobed behind Guntris’s back. Off comes the hat, off come the jacket and trousers, and hey presto! Out she pops in a sexy pink mini-dress! Why – she’s a beautiful lady!

And as if this wasn’t enough, there’s one final coup de theatre. As the song finishes, Marie’s dancers grasp the hem of her mini-dress and yank down hard. The skirt opens out down to her ankles, miraculously transforming the tarty little frock into an elegant and sophisticated full-length evening gown.

Clever frock-work always goes down well in Eurovision. We ignore this at our peril.

24 – Lithuania. Happy You – Aivaras.

Well, we liked this one, even if nobody watching at home did. There is no clearer illustration of the difference between the forgiving nature of the amplified vocal sound in the echoey hall, and the merciless nature of the microphoned sound coming through Europe’s television screens. In the hall, we merrily dance and sing along to one of our favourite little ditties. Across Europe, a hundred million viewers clasp their hands to their ears in horror. Hey, how were we to know that Aivaras could barely hit a note? Or maybe we were just seduced by all that gorgeous Lithuanian knitwear. Yes, that was probably it.

As the interval act approaches, a quick straw poll amongst the group. Most of us are backing Malta. Someone predicts a win for Cyprus. Meanwhile, the quietest member of the group says, quietly and firmly, “It’s going to be Latvia.” Pah. What does he know?

I am not a fan of Eurovision interval acts, but there is one particular moment which I have been looking forward to this time round. Allow me to quote from the official programme:In other words, a dozen shirtless hunks start beating themselves with birch twigs. I am easily entertained.

The voting is dead exciting, it has to be said. Latvia and Malta are more or less neck and neck all the way through, with the final result resting on the votes of the final country. This is the way we like it! We are all desperately rooting for Malta. The Maltese have made it abundantly clear over the years that they would love to host Eurovision, even promising to build a new stadium if needs be. This is their best chance since Chiara in 1998. But clearly, all that frock-work has paid dividends for plucky little Latvia. We are astonished at how well it has done (except for one of us who is quietly smiling, with a faint look of I-told-you-so). As for the UK – it’s a great result. After a shaky start and a couple of nul points, those lovely Austrian people put us on the map with our only douze points of the night. From then on, it’s a steady stream of sixes and sevens, accompanied unfailingly each time by loyal cheering and flag waving from our section. My poor little arms get quite sore from all the twirling.

Show over, and Chig is off to the official party. No such treats await us lesser mortals, as we head off to the taxi queue. I’m looking forward to another late night quaffing session, even though it is already one o’clock in the morning and our hydrofoil sails at noon. The four skins are having none of it, though. They head straight back to the hotel for bed, leaving me going into town on my own. This is no bother, as I have met so many people over the course of the weekend and am bound to fall into conversation in the X Baar.

If I can find the X Baar, that is. My cab driver has never heard of it. I am dropped off near the main square, and spend around ten minutes stumbling up random alleyways until I gratefully alight upon the rainbow street sign. Once inside, I immediately fall in with four London guys who are also staying in our hotel. They’re a friendly, jolly bunch, and make excellent quaffing companions for the rest of the night. The atmosphere inside the X Baar is great. It’s a bit like Week One at university: everybody is striking up conversations with everybody else, with only one thing on our minds – and for once, it ain’t copping off. Every last detail of tonight’s contest is dissected in detail, assisted by the instant video replay on the bar’s two TV screens. News filters through of R from the Retro Bar, who had bet £250 on Latvia at odds of 8-1. Lucky man!

We talk to Finns, Estonians and various other Europeans. On three separate occasions, groups of Estonians approach and ask, with great earnestness, what we thought of tonight’s show. Was it good enough? Was the technical standard high enough? Did Estonia do OK? Could it hold its own with the other, richer countries which had hosted the show in the past? I realise just how important tonight has been for this fledgling nation, struggling to re-establish itself after decades of suppression, and eager to show the rest of the world just what it is capable of. By a happy coincidence, the UK and Estonia have scored an equal number of points tonight. There is much smiling and shaking of hands between happy Brits and happy Estonians. I am having a bloody marvellous time. This is why I love coming away for Eurovision. It’s more than just a bunch of cheesy pop songs. I bloody love it.

Taxi at dawn, which is spectacular this morning. The Lithuanian entry drifts through my booze-addled mind: Watching the sunrise, beautiful red skies, hoping this day will never end. Bed at 4.30, up at 11, taxi, hydrofoil (a thankfully smooth crossing), taxi, a pleasant mooch around Helsinki for a couple of hours, plane, train, taxi, train, taxi, home, video highlights, bed. Top, top weekend.

Labels: eurovision, eurovision2002