May 2004 Archives

Eurovision 2004

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The Eurovision Song Contest is on so I thought I'd make some notes for the folks back home who may never have heard of it. It's huge here in Europe, watched much in the same way everyone watches the Oscars in North America. This year it has a television audience of 500 million. Basically, all the countries in Europe put forward a pop group and a song and the continent votes for their favourite. The performances are almost always universally terrible. I can think of only one band that went anywhere after Eurovision and that was Abba.

Many people hold Eurovision parties where they boggle at the absolute tawdry crapness of it all. The British presenter, Terry Wogan, makes snide comments through the show and reportedly drinks Bailey's steadily throughout the evening. He's been doing this for years. The first time I saw the show I was flabbergasted at how rude he was, but now his behaviour strikes me as entirely appropriate, and really, that's what a Eurovision party is all about. Everyone gets hammered and laughs at the appallingness of it all. Wogan is just lucky enough to get paid for it.

The voting is politically charged. You're not allowed to vote for your own country, but unofficial alliances have grown up over the years. Turkey usually gives most of their votes to Germany and Germany usually gives most of their votes to Turkey. And, of course, people tend to vote for their neighbours.

Anyway, the show is beginning now…

Turkey won last year. The winning country hosts the next year's Eurovision. And the show begins with last year's winner singing last year's song. The most notable thing about her performance is that she has a bare midriff and what appears to be a very prominent caesarean scar which she has packed with glitter or possibly diamonds. It's the perfect beginning to Eurovision -- just the right level of glamour, tackiness, and weirdness.

And now this year's entries begin…

Spain
Quite Spanish. Basically a low rent Enrique Iglesias. He's a sexy boy, but he can't dance.

Austria
Imitation boy band trio. Sweet Mother of Boredom! Please let there be a technical fault so I can't hear them any more.

Norway
Time to pour some drinks.

France
There is a bald Woman wondering around the stage on stilts. No idea why. She's not singing or playing an instrument. She's just a bald woman on stilts.

Serbia and Montenegro
Very folk songy. The kind of song you'd imagine would bring tears to the eyes of a Montenegran goat herder (provided he'd had quite a bit to drink).

Malta
Stunningly crap duet with weird little operatic bits of vocal high-jinks from the female. The guy looks like he's escaped from a high school production of Grease.

Netherlands
Two guys with a guitar on stools. The three guys in dark suits playing backup fingersnaps in the background are cool though.

Germany
My favourite so far. Dude with a nice voice and a slightly jazzy backup band. You could actually imagine him making a living as a musician. It probably won't stand a chance in the voting though as it's neither very poppy nor very folky.

Albania
Best pop song so far. It's catchy if nothing else. Still prefer Germany though.

Ukraine
And suddenly the stage is awash in Vikings for some bizarre reason, apparently led by Xena, Warrior Princess. And, yes, the Vikings appear to be doing the Riverdance. Full marks for bizarreness. Okay, now the Vikings have whips. I have no idea where they came from. This should get the kinky vote.

Croatia
Nothing much to say about this entry, except that I met a previous Croatian entry at my friend John S's New Year's in February party. Any music is infinitely better when it's live. I spent several hours that night dancing happily to the kind of Croatian folk music that I am now mercilessly belittling on Eurovision.

Bosnia and Herzegovina
Welcome to the Eighties. Billy Idol surrounded by scantily clad dancers. Well, he looks a bit like Billy, but he sings with a slight lisp. If that man isn't gay, neither is Graham Norton.

Commercial Break
20,000 people outside in Hamburg watching the show. But when the camera switches to the presenter for the outside party in Istanbul, she has no idea she is on air and so we just watch her for about 10 to 15 seconds while she wipes her nose and looks bored and the on-stage presenters shout at her in Turkish. A classic Eurovision moment.

Belgium
One female backup dancer in workout shorts, tanktop and boots, and one male backup dancer with a red Mohawk. Again, lots of rocking dance machine.

Russia
Solo female singer with four backup circus acrobat gymnast dudes with their upper bodies dyed, respectively, purple, red, blue, and green. They're kind of cool, actually. And any distraction is welcome as the poor singer is out of tune. I assume she was picked because she is small and light. It's a heavily choreographed piece and every so often she ends up standing on one or other of the brightly coloured dancer dudes.

F.Y.R. Macedonia
Okay, I thought I was going to have nothing to say about this one, but now the Tom Jones sound alike on stage has just had two long red ribbons pulled out of his armpits by his backup dancers. WTF?

Greece
Okay. There seems to be a theme starting here. The solo male singer from Greece has just pulled two red scarves out of the butts of his two backup dancers. Oh, and now the backup singers have ripped their white suits off to reveal sparkly tinsel-like bras and panties. Oh, and now they've ripped the singer's white Don Johnson jacket off. And now he's done a back handspring for us. Lovely.

Iceland
Where the hell is Bjork when you need her? This man is trying to be Celine Dion except that he can't actually sing.

Ireland
It's a one man boy band. But the world already has one Ronan Keating. No hope here.

Poland
Mmm… Very sexy outfit if nothing else. Pretty much a see-through tight black scarf over some black underwear.

England
Not too bad, actually. Much better than last year when England came dead last (partially because the duo performing couldn't stay in tune). This guy sounds vaguely Country & Western. Dull, but not painful.

Cyprus
I think I actually like this one, in a cheesy kind of way. She wants to be Celine Dion as well, but at least she can sing. Vicki and I have a good friend from Cyprus who is currently drinking in a pub. I call her to find she's home now watching on the telly. It must be cool to have an entry you can be proud of.

Turkey
Punk-Ska-Klezmer kind of thing with a touch of Tom Jones hip-hop vocal styling. This is definitely my favourite after 30 seconds. Good rock and roll showmanship. And it's a Turkish guy with red hair. You've got to love that.

Romania
Sweet Mother of Jesus! That's an impressive leather bra! I didn't know they made Barbie dolls that can sing. A text from a Dutch friend points out that she looks like a bit like a skinny half-naked Ivana Trump. Well, 90% naked, more like.

Sweden
Typically Swedish. Absolutely beautiful, but a bit dull. She looks like she came as a flat pack from the same factory that built Helena Christianson and Heidi Klum.

The voting
And now the voting begins. 36 countries entered this year and they all get to vote. Of the 36, 24 made it to the final. Each country voting assigns a certain number of points to the top ten countries. The lowest of the ten gets 1 point. The favourite of the ten gets 12 points. For some reason no one gets nine or eleven points. I have no idea why. It's just one of the endearing quirks of Eurovision.

The voting seems to go on longer than the performance of the actual songs and is almost as bizarre. In the end, the Ukraine wins narrowly over Serbia. Then there is a bit of a delay because the Ukranian group didn't realize they might win and would have to perform again. The prize is presented by last years's winner. Unfortunately, the poor woman loses her shoe in the grating at the edge of the stage and a stage hand has to yank it out of the grill and give it back to her. Now they're performing the song again. The only thing I can think of is that everyone in Europe got a bit confused and thought it was a Xena look a like contest.

For more info including pictures of the performers, lyrics of all the songs, and how everyone voted, go to the Eurovision official site.

It's over. And, once again, I'm baffled why I spent the last 3 hours watching this. Oh well, it's marginally better than pop idol, I suppose.

Turning 40

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Okay, it's happened. I'm old.

Just a couple of months ago I was a young cool hipster in my 30s. Now I'm am boring old fart in my 40s. Sweet Mother of Jesus, the transition has been sudden and painful! The most obvious indicator is what is known in clinical circles as "the supermodel reflex".

A year ago I talked my way into the afterparty for the launch of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. It was easily the highlight of my social calendar that year. I had a fantastic time and I doubt my eyes have ever been happier.

This year was the 40th anniversary of the swimsuit edition. I automatically received an invite because of my attendance at the last party. But I just couldn't get excited about it. Deep within my heart, something was wrong. I no longer cared. My brain, thinking logically about it, just couldn't believe it. I forced myself to tell people how excited I was but it just didn't seem to matter. I lied to them. Yes. I lied to my friends and colleagues. That's what happens when you turn 40. You start lying to people. No doubt that is why you almost never see a politician in their 20s and 30s. They simply haven't developed the tools for the job.

I accepted the invite, of course. And then cast about my immediate circle to find someone to go with me. My wife couldn't come. My crazy landlord also wasn't interested. (Now THAT is just bizarre! If I've turned old, he must have turned dead). The only person I could get to come with me was my friend B, who is without a doubt one of the most gorgeous women I know. So, now, not only was I going to a supermodel party but I was also going with a companion who would have fit right in. People would think I was a supermodel househusband. I'd be considered safe. Rachel Hunter would chat me up; invite me back to her place; we'd become fast friends; Vicki and I would become regulars at her country estate; we'd have weekly champagne hot tub orgies.

Except that I didn't really want to go. It's not B. I love B to bits. I'm happy to go out for a drink with her at the drop of a hat. I just worried that I wouldn't fit in. And who would I talk to? And what if it's smoky and loud? And besides it starts too late. And I have tons of work to do. And what if they play that new hip hoop music and I can't dance to it? And I just didn't seem to care.

"WTF! It's a party awash with supermodels! They'll be close to butt-naked! Go!" That's what the logical part of my brain was saying. The emotional part of my heart was saying, "Ah, the hell with it, I'm tired." When I was young (e.g. last year) my brain and heart seemed to take opposite positions in this debate.

BRAIN: Maybe you shouldn't go. You're almost forty. You won't fit in. Vicki might get jealous. You should get some sleep.

HEART: Supermodels! Yummy! Go!

As it happens, I came down with a vicious cold days before the event. My heart and brain continued to duke it out:

BRAIN: This is perfect. You can now go the party. You can stay there all night and no one will blink if you call in sick the next day. They'll assume it's because of the disease.

HEART: Bleaurgh. I feel awful. Must sleep. Young girls noisy. Yuck.

In the end I made a compromise (a very middle-aged, boring thing to do). I called in sick the day of the event. I lied to my BRAIN and told it it was so I could get well enough to go to the party. My HEART knew better.

I didn't go to the party. Instead, I lay awake all that night in a blind panic about all the work that I was supposed to be doing and trying to ignore my brain that was screaming at me about how if I'm awake and miserable I'd have a far better chance of cheering up if I was drinking vodka martinis and lounging on a rose petal bedecked canopy bed watching some of the most beautiful women in world writhe about on a dance floor.

(Yes, the venue had rose petal bedecked canopy beds as a standard feature).

And then, due to the lack of sleep caused by my stupid-ass brain, my cold was even worse the next morning and so I skipped off work that day as well. This no doubt led to the assumption by my work colleagues that I had gone to the party and had a hideously fantastic and decadent time. I hate my brain.