Now if you queued for three days for tickets you must be pretty gutted at this point. Because you’ll never get those three days back AND you won’t see MJ play.
But then I remember the British student who queued for 3 days just so she could sell her tickets to Japanese business men for £10,000 a pop. That’s alot of freaking money, they must have been massive fans.
And of course they are the ones suffering the most because as macabre as it is all I can think about is them and their £10,000 slips of paper and how much shit they’re going to get at work tomorrow. I was haunted for weeks after my i-pod broke so Christ knows how they feel. I’d be freaking traumatised. They’re probably in the fetus position as we speak, listening to Bad and crying in their hands like a new born.
Duh! And someone paid $35k for a pair of $1k VIP tickets! Poor poor bastard. That’s the equivilent of coming home to find you’ve been robbed, your idol is dead and catching your wife in bed with your boss who has a penis like a giant pepper grinder. My heart goes out to them. I mean there isn’t much you can do about that is there?
“Hello is that ebay user mikeuk6? Yeah you sold me some Michael Jackson tickets and I was wondering if I could…..hello? …..HELLO?!?!…..”
Last time he uses a ticket tout.
Carrie wrote the following about a conversation me and her had many moons ago however since 50% of this is my intellectual property I thought it was only only fair to re-appropriate (plagiarise) it and to cut and paste it on my blog too.
“I stopped by Max’s on my way home to pick up some more of my TV shows. Somehow, and I can’t remember why, but we got to talking about Star Trek. Now, back in the day, I was a huge Star Trek fan. Well, I still am I guess, but I don’t watch it like I used to, mainly because nothing good has come out of the franchise for a while. So, after a short conversation and quoting Picard saying ‘Engage’ etc, and me searching my ever addled brain for the name of Worf’s weapon of choice (a Bat’leth, in case you wondered), and Max asking if I know any Klingon (I don’t), Max decided to tell me a joke. Oh, and note, Max has never watched Star Trek.
M: Ok, so, Picard has got a sewing machine and it’s broken…
C: Why doesn’t he use the Replicator?
M: What’s a Replicator?
C: It can make anything you need.
M: He’s sewing
C: But if Picard needed a garment he would just go to the Replicator and say ‘Hey, Replicator, I would like a jumper’, and he would have it.
M: The Replicators are broken. So he takes the sewing machine to this guy…
C: Why wouldn’t he take it to Data?
M: Who’s Data?
C: A character on the show!
M: Data can’t fix it.
C: Data can fix anything! He’s an Android, he has a computer for a brain!
M: Big Sigh.
C: Now, if Picard was on another planet say, without Replicators or Data, then I could understand the need for a sewing machine. If you’d just put a little back story in, this joke would work much better.
M: Fine. He’s on Earth…
C: Not Earth. Earth in Star Trek is very advanced.
M: Fine! He’s in Wombwell*, they’re still very backwards there.
C: Silence.
M: He takes the sewing machine to a man to get it fixed. The man says ‘What do you want me to do with it?’ And Picard says, ‘Make it sew’.**
C: You know, that’s not a very good joke.”
*My hometown
**Picard’s well known catchphrase is ‘Make it so’, in case you don’t know, often followed by ‘Number 1′, cos he was talking to Riker.
Cheers Carrie!
A picture of some geeks to brighten up the post.
So recently I’ve been going to my local Starbucks in Central London and engaging in some very very unsavory activity. I believe the legal term for it is deception (if you want to be picky). Basically my local Starbucks is adjacent to a hospital where all NHS staff get 15% off their purchases. And how do they know you’re a doctor, nurse or whatnot?
Well they possess a small white security card round their neck on a blue cord. Just like my security pass.
You can probably see where this is going from a mile off can’t you?
The first time I went in there I admit I attempted to put the record straight in a half hearted way. The employee asked if I was a doctor and I laughed and and asked if he was ‘feeling okay?’ to which he just smiled and said, “Well I just needed to check before I give you your discount.”
A light bulb flashes above my head.
“Well its good you checked” I said. Ha! Aren’t I cunning?
Furthermore the discount transpired to be 15%. Well I wasn’t going to argue with that. And I didn’t even have to lie per se. It’s not like I uttered the word ‘yes’ and wheeled out some extravagant back story, I just let them come to their own assumptions. I didn’t even know they offered discounts until they alluded to it. They practically invited me to lie.
Anyway it was fortunate they didn’t ask many questions as the only medicine I know comes from medical dramas. And when I say medical dramas I mean Scrubs.
However this was a few months ago and the water is getting murkier. I’m trying to walk a very fine line between suitably dangling my pass in front of their faces as I order (thus allowing them to think I’m with the NHS) and deflecting any questions they have with glib, non commital comments. I comfort myself in the knowledge that I’ve never claimed to be a doctor or work for the NHS. That’s what I’ll tell them when they corner me. Who can argue with the facts? Also they don’t ask often. I’ve only have to give the three following answers.
1) “How is the hospital today?”
“Still standing I’m sure! Iced cafe mocha puhleasseeee.”
2) “What have you been doing today?”
“Ohhhhh just solving problems as usual! (dramatically mops brow) Iced cafe mocha puhleaseee..”
3) “What sort of doctor are you?”
“Ohhhhh I’m not a real doctor! Seriously! You’d do a better job than me! Hahahahahaaa (please don’t ask any more questions) ahahahahaha.”
Iced cafe mocha tastes so much better with 45p off. I reckon I can keep milking this for at least a year. Or until someone has a heart attack at the counter and I have to leave surreptitiously via the fire exit.
“Oh is that my pager?”
And my favourite Scrubs quote of all time?
“You have delusions of grandeur!”
“Did you know I coined that term?”
Arf arf.
Maybe it was the second mocha I had at Costa Coffee? Maybe its karma re-dressing the balance in my life after a fortnight of disaster? Maybe its sheer bloody minded perseverance on my part or the stars aligning or it even maybe that I, Maxwell Rees, am a dormant musical genius? Who knows. All I know is that around 12:30am British time I became a bonafide Guitar Hero God.
By this point I’d been bashing away at the ‘ol ‘axe’ for nearly a whole hour when I had my Rain Man moment, I wasn’t even looking at my fingers anymore or concentrating on the multicoloured symbols firing towards me on the monitor. Nor was I sticking my tongue out as I played or furrowing my brow in frustration. All I was doing was panicking that if I thought about it too much then *POFF* the magic would go just as quickly as it had arrived. I WAS IN THE ZONE. Suddenly I’m playing ‘One’ by Metallica like I was Jimmy Page. I wasn’t even aware how I was doing it. I just went with the flow and let it take me where ever it pleased.
It was a thing of beauty.
It took me to 98% on medium mode. It is a watershed moment that we should all salute and will probably be remembered long after we’ve forgotten about the Moon Landing and the collapse of the Berlin Wall. I was so pleased with myself that I’m sure my cock started twitching. It was probably the same for Jimi at Woodstock.
(BTW never look at yourself in a mirror whilst playing guitar hero, because no matter how awesome you think you are the visage of a grown man in tracksuit bottoms and a fisher price guitar gyrating around like a village imbecile will always bring you and your ego crashing down to earth)
“Hmmmmm I appear not to be cool…”
But anyway. I officially rock in electronic land and the electronic groupies love me. Now its time for bed as I have important meetings and tings tomorrow.
ONE MONTH AGO – AMSTERDAM
A month ago I was having a long weekend in Amsterdam, whilst taking in a fascinating and cultural tour around the city (not the dirty red light district – nosiree) I had the surprise of bumping into an old acquaintance as we passed through the Jewish quarter.
“Adam!” I shouted, a little too loudly, the moment our eyes met.
I’m quite poor with names so I was just chuffed I could recall his through the fog of time. Although to be fair its hard for me to forget his name, Uni may have been seven years ago but I fondly remember spending numerous weeks in the Spring of ‘02 brokering a tentative peace settlement between himself and his girlfriend, a good friend of mine called Jenny.
Those were the days.
Anyway we didn’t really have time to stop and chat, we exchanged a manly hug and he introduced me to his new girlfriend Clair and explained to her how close we were. “We used to go to the same rock club!” But it was all very brief, my tour group and friends were melting into a labyrinth of streets ahead of me so we made plans to facebook and hook up sometime later. (How many times have I said that for it not to happen?)
Anyway the stars obviously wanted me to keep my promise. The small world kept getting smaller and I bumped into him again the next night on a tram.
Now my years in intelligence haven’t been wasted on me as one thing immediately struck me about Adam. He was wearing a suit. On holiday. I only wear a suit when protocol forces me too. And even then I’m usually in trainers. I break all the rules. Anyway this un-nerved me slightly. Mainly because Adam was two years younger and people younger than me should never wear suits out of choice. Adam was different from when I last knew him seven years previous, as patronising as this sounds,I remember him being a hesitant, nervy kinda guy who liked System of a Down. But lo! Before me was a calm and confident man bereft of a stoop. It was almost like he’d……… grown up.
Actually he was very grown up. He owned a house (fair enough – I like renting – honest – I don’t imagine murdering my flatmates EVER), was a marketing manager at the Home Office (same as me – well I work for a non compartmental government body and we have temps – its close) and drum roll please…. had 10 minutes previous just proposed to his girlfriend…..
“You’re the first to know!” She exclaimed, flashing a ring at me, smiling so broadly her head was in danger of splitting in two. It was very sweet but ever so slightly surreal. This wasn’t what I was expecting in Amsterdam. I was expecting art, bicycles and debauchery and not to be congratulating Adam Addison on getting married.
“You know you haven’t changed a bit.” Adam said, smiling from ear to ear and slapping me on the arm. Which I think was meant to be a compliment but the look up and down he gave me wasn’t reassuring. Did he not approve of my grubby trainers, ripped jeans and leather jacket? Maybe he meant I’d retained my youthful good looks through the years? Or was he mocking me!?!
Had I really not changed that much? Seven years is such a long time and I’ve accomplished so …… much….. I’m ………sure……. I now own two consoles and don’t live cheque to cheque. That’s progress isn’t it? Plus I don’t exclusively wear Carharrt jeans anymore. I’m practically a different person. Actually as we were speaking I was rocking a pair of Cheap Monday’s. It was apparent Adam wasn’t qualified to make such a bold statement in the face of overwhelming evidence suggesting otherwise.
“Anyway this is our stop.” Said Adam “Where is your hotel?”
“Zelctanshauung.” I said, omitting the fact I was staying in a hostel but whats a continent between friends? Plus hadn’t he seen the exchange rate? Its £9 here for a bloody sandwich!
And with that he and his new wife to be were skipping off through the night. Waving goodbye and giggling to each other.
“Last year I took some kids to Borneo to build a school!” I shouted as I waved them off.
Fuck.
Me in Amsterdam. Looking mature and ting.
SATURDAY 6th JUNE – WOODGREEN
To further compound the feeling that I’m being out grown by my peers I was recently invited to attend the wedding of one of my friends from my Borneo expedition who is also younger than me. Who isn’t? Oh how these youngsters mock me. But I was determined to go. I’m a big boy now and should go to weddings and things. I didn’t buy that suit from Primark for nothing. Plus I’d get to see the Borneo posse.
All I had to do was wake up at 6am, iron a shirt and meet Dee at Hatton Cross by 8am for a lift.
Simple.
So you can imagine the feeling of fear that came over me as I lay in my room on Saturday morning wondering why my room was so light and wondering when would my alarm go off?
I hopped over to my phone.
It was 8:45am.
I had several missed calls.
Shitity shitity fuck fuck…
“Yes hi Dee its Max. I’ve kind of just woken up. Yep. Uh huh. I know I’m a moron. Cheers for that news flash…So I erm, suppose I’ll see you there?”
Dee was very calm about it. However Alex in the background wasn’t.
“I got up at 6:15 you dick!”
I’ve never got ready for anything so quickly in my entire freaking life. I literally collapsed into my wardrobe and rolled out again fully clothed. I was out of the house in approximately 3 minutes and tearing my way along to Wood Green station like a scruffy business man who has just woken with a stonking hangover to find Camila Parker Bowles next to him smoking a cigarette and licking her lips seductively.
Of course when I arrived to Wood Green station is was closed for the weekend. Trouble loves company doesn’t it?
Shitity shitity shit.
I am Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and a Funeral. I’m a fully functioning cliche. A moronic man child running around London in a crumpled and creased white shirt with flecks of week old mocha on it and smelling like someone with the plague has spat in my arm pits.
So I ran further to Turnpike Lane station. Sweating unhealthily.
By 9:30am I was at Euston station. Purchasing a ticket through the nose. Which is painful.
“I’d-like-a-single-to-Kidd
“We have a train leaving in 10 minutes,” she said calmly, ignoring the fact I was about to pass out on their counter.
“When-does-it-arrive?!?!”
“It arrives at 12:10.”
“Awesome!” I yelled before pulling my mental arithmetic face (very similar to another face of mine) and doing the necessary mental calculations, its 30 minute drive from Kidderminster to Borston village so …..
MY GOD I COULD ACTUALLY MAKE IT. BY THE SKIN OF MY TEETH. I AM NOT A MORON!
PRAISE THE LORD! I AM REDEEMED!
And then I was running for the train, which is hard in adult shoes, although I did spend a few moments agonising over playing in traffic rather than paying for the ticket. “Yes sorry I couldn’t make it, got hit by a car, terribly unfortunate, on the plus side I didn’t have to get a mortgage on a train ticket.”
Have you seen the price of train tickets recently? At first I presumed they’d misunderstood me and thought I’d actually made an audacious request to purchase a train made of gold that stretched from London to Kidderminster and was manned by nubile Swedish cheerleaders serving caviar and champagne from their collective growlers. For the price of a first class return you can fly to Thailand and back.
The next time the train drivers go on strike I’m going to personally punch them into paralysis.
Anyway despite this I was quite bizarrely happy with myself, so much so that I was high fiving strangers on the train and hugging scared geriatrics in my carriage.
“I am indestructible!”
TEXT TO JUDY: Don’t worry I’ll be there in plenty of time. See you at the service 
So things were going well. We got to Birmingham International in good time and I managed to run to my connecting train across town without actually brushing against any of the sunken eyed locals. I even had time to stop at ‘Herberts Coffee shack’ for an ice mocha which, unfortunately for yours truly, tasted like cold rats piss.
However it was fairtrade. So swings and roundabouts.
At 11:10 I got my connecting train to Kidderminster. It smelt of old people. However the old people were sitting well away from me so Christ knows how I smelt.
At 11:15 the train abruptly stopped.
At 11:16 there was an announcement:-
“Due to signal faults this train will cancelled at the next station. Any passengers wishing to travel to Kidderminster should get the replacement coach service.”
11:45 I’m on a replacement coach service to Kidderminster resigned to the shittest day on record. The only way this could get worse is if the coach load of geriatrics gang rape me for the duration of the journey and upload the resulting footage to youtube.
11:50 Text Judy and tell her that whilst her offer of a lift from Kidderminster at mid-day is generous I won’t be there. Unless this is a magic flying coach which can fly and has jet boosters. (It isn’t.)
1pm Arrive at Kidderminster station exactly as the ceremony starts 20 miles away. I hail a taxi. And when I mean hail I mean ‘throw myself in front of the nearest taxi and hammer onthe windows hysterically.’
This is a conversation you never want with a taxi driver:-
“Can you get me to Borston Church? I’m really late for a wedding.”
“It depends.” He started, rubbing his hands together and laughing manically. “How much money do you have?”
1:30pm Arrive at the Church. Ask driver for an-idiot-late -for-wedding-discount which is denied.
However he offers me a consolation mint which partially counters my morning breath so I can’t totally complain.
1:36pm Finally get in the perfectly symetrical rural church after running round it twice and peering in through stain glassed windows to establish which of the two doors are the altar and the entrance. Because that’d really round the day off nicely.
Suprisingly pick the right door.
1:37pm Stand at the back and watch the signing of the registrar. Pretend I’ve been there for ages and lament the fact that I forgot my glasses and my deoderant.
I think I deserve kudos for perservering if nothing else.
Standing room at the back.
I love this picture. Its too damn cute for words.
I have nothing more to add really except that Caitlin is now smiling at me and not crying every time I hold her which is progress. I even made her STOP crying the other day by walking around with her and patting her on the back and making motorbike noises.
I think the reason she cried previously is she picked up on my fear and apprhension around babies. I have three irrational fears in life.
1) Shopping somewhere and having something fall in my bag when I’m distracted by something shiny which results in me being unfairly arrested for shop lifting.
2) That I accidentally cause a miscarriage with a wheelie chair at work. Y’know, someone behind me calls my name and WHAM! I’ve spun around and elbowed a preggers lady straight in the womb.
I get the nickname of baby killer.
3) I throw a kid up in the air like young fathers do and catch them by the arms as they land but I throw them with such vigour that their arms snap out of their sockets on the way down. The baby hits the ground with a thud and I’m left holding the arms.
Anyway ignore how disturbed I am and look at the cute picture. Ahhhhhhh
Good geek:-
Wears a Thundercats T-shirt. Or a retro film T-shirt. Like the Goonies. You secretly want their T-shirt.
Bad geek:-
Wears a ten year old Babylon 5 T-shirt with holes in it. No one knows how to talk to them.
Good geek:-
Wears NHS specs. Which always look hot on girls.
Bad geeks:-
Have a ponytail that will never be cut off or change at all. It’ll just get thinner until they’re arrested on paedophilia charges.
Good geek:-
Gets bashful and flustered when people show pay them a compliment. Always being self depricating about their own looks even if they’re lookers. Bless ‘em.
Bad geek:-
Knows about the opposite sex from watching Jemma Jameson ragging on the interweb. Prone to making embarassing sweeping comments about the opposite sex that kill conversations.
Good geek:-
Helps you build your own website/supplies you with special effects for your film. It takes them ‘no time at all.’ Which is nice because it’d take me several years of watching youtube tutorials to even know where to begin and would end with me launching my laptop through a window.
Bad geek:-
Mocks your rudimentary website and laughs at your decision to use dreamweaver. They’d code it with html! Aren’t you inferior to the geeks!!!! Mwhahahaha. Wankers. Nothing worse than a smug geek.
Good geek:-
Knows who Leeroy Jenkins is. When you both acknowledge this you indulge in a quick bit of “LEERROOOOYYYYYY.” “Well i’ve got chicken.”
Bad geek:-
Has remixed a Leeroy Jenkins dance track which is incredibly irritating.
Good geek:-
Wants to be in the creative industries when they grow up. Maybe in graphics or journalism?
Bad geek:-
Wants to be a vampire when they grow up. They own a velvet shirt/leather waist coat.
Good geek:-
Can talk to you in film quotes.
Bad geek:-
Can talk to you in Klingon. Or Elvish.
The best type of geek.
The worst type of nerd
Well it appears the rumours are true and Eurovision has somehow been sterilized. They’ve made it less a freak show for Europe’s kingdoms and more a singing competition. Which is a shame.
There was alot of earnest warbling and singing and glum faces to be had on Saturday night but shamefully few care in the community singers separating the tedium.
Anyway me and my good friend Carrie sat down to write a blow by blow account of events so if you missed it you can share in the shite. Here is what happened. Enjoy.
20:00 Cirque du Solei kick things off. Graham Norton attempts to make child catcher jokes and gives us a few facts about the group. Apparently 40% of the group are Russian.
“We don’t see enough women on uni-cycles.” He quips. Badly.
A variety of circus freaks appear and do their thing.
20:05 Last year’s winner, Dima Bilan, a metro sexual crooner in lipstick descends form the sky attached to wires. The Russian audience act like a medieval crowd of simpletons and go mental like its the most fantastic thing that the world has ever seen.
20:07 Dima Bilan runs through a few stunt walls made of cardboard which explode into glitter before he starts ’singing.’ There is a touch of Bruno about him.
Graham makes a few more bad jokes about health and safety.
“He’s totally miming.” Says Carrie before we’re given a dramatic slow mo flash back to his wall running escapades. They’re milking it for all their worth. Its like that old Levi advert but more pantomime.
20:10 “Presenters! Presenters!” Shouts Carrie as two glossy manikins emerge stage right. She dubs them Barbie and Ken. Barbie has a nose that a plane could land on. She is spray tanned to an inch of her life.
She babbles on about the weather being amazing in Russia. Graham disagrees and says it was hailing yesterday.
The male presenter shouts instead of speaking.”Stop yelling!” Says Carrie to the presenter “This isn’t a Cillit Bang advert.”
We’re officially under way.
20:12 Lithuania – Sasha Son – Love.
It starts off with a bald bloke pretending to be Alica Keys, playing on a piano and warbling in a language that closely resembles English. Its not exactly setting the world on fire.
Carrie makes snoring noises.
Drama!!!! He gets up from the piano and walks across the stage. The piano magically still plays.
“FIX!!!” yells Carrie like its Watergate “Fail!!”
Now he’s singing in Lithuanian. Shit in two languages. Nil points.
“I BRING YOU FIRE!!!” The finale is him producing a small humble flame from his hands.
Is that it?
20:16 Israel – Noa and blah blah “There must be another way.”
I smell political bullshit.
An Arab and Jewish woman singing together? Controversial. This is more like it. Its dreadful, very phlegmy and overly sincere. The two singers circle each other like wolves, tentatively touching hands. I can’t hear much over the noises of derision from my sidekick.
“Can they be put on fire?” Questions Carrie.
Its very drab. Eventually it ends before I slip into a coma.
20:20 France – Patricia Kaas – Et S’il Fallait Le Faire (a.k.a. Allow me to bore you to death)
French Bond theme. The crowd love it, although this is maybe due to this ladies existing popularity in Russia rather than this song – as this song alone would be justification for a public stoning.
The lady in question is a miserable looking Glen Close look-a-like whose act consists of singing alone on stage.
Not a backing musician in sight? This is very unEurovision.
Words are flashing up on the screens behind her…. “If I had to….”
Was she forced to sing under duress? Bloody looks it.
Jesus. It isn’t the intro to a dramatic song, just one long intro. For the finale she’ll probably slash her wrists. This is the equivalent of Chinese water torture but in the French.
Carrie questions what I’m writing for this song? I shrug. Nothing has really happened so I’m just being bitchy innit?
It’s over before it has begun. I feel like I’ve aged significantly.
20:24 Sweden – Malena Ernman (a.k.a. nice bit of ‘Poporea’)
“Can you keep a secret? Cannnnnn you keep a secret????” Squeals Malena as she enters the stage and bursts into some techno opera. If the secret is a) you take steriods or b) you were born a man then I’m afraid I can’t keep your secret. It’s really self evident.
“Its a man!!!!” screams Carrie happily as a muscular Denise Van Outen slides into view and we’re given some controversy to chew on.
Its got everything. Strobe lighting, ambitious camera angles, dancing side kicks and a good and bad theme going on.
“This should be the opening theme to the Olympics.” says Carrie. She’s not wrong. Its quite good. But it gets better…
POW! Suddenly she’s hitting some stonking high notes! Which is amazing considering she might have a penis and a scrotum. Her sidekicks (dressed all in black) now have adorned themselves with diamond leaf face masks for no reason.
“She is terrifying” says Graham, echoing Carrie. I think its unanimous. She’s harbouring some fugitive male genitals. She could probably snap your neck like breadstick.
20:28 Croatia – Igor Cukrov – Lijepa Tena
Smarmy looking Croatian man mixed with the Dread Pirate Roberts starts singing whilst his backing singers are assaulted by an enthusiastic wind machine.
(They’re ‘undulating’ according to Carrie. Must get dictionary.)
Dramatic costume change! One of his windswept side kicks flings away her black robe and is now clad in white. Ohh the contrast. She simmers forward for a duet.
“Oh ohhhhhhh!” Says Carrie as the cameraman locks onto the woman. She’s a bit of a beast to say the least. As soon as the cameraman realises his folly by focusing on this swamp donkey he immediately ‘blurs’ out.
He doesn’t go back for seconds.
“Oh dear.” Says Carrie. Sympathetically.
She’s not great but I wouldn’t rule her out, any port in a storm and all.
20:32 Portugal -Flor de Lis – Todas as Ruas Amor
LADIES AND GENTS WE HAVE A COLOUR STAGE!!! The back ground now looks like a cross between the teletubbies garden and an acid trip.
It’s quite a jolly number with a pleasant plump girl singing in front of a jolly country band of childrens TV presenters armed with, amongst either things, an accordion.
I have no idea what the song is about but I’ve labelled it ‘Shinny Happy Croatians.’ REM should sue.
“This one isn’t making me fall asleep.” Says Carrie. Which is a sort of a compliment before adding “It looks like Rainbow Bright threw up on stage.”
I have no idea what they’re singing about but they have torn up the evenings monochrome opera theme and are skipping around with gay abandon.
10 points for effort.
20:35 Iceland – Yohanna – Is It True?
The girl reminds me of Amy Adams in Enchanted. She looks positively virginal and dangerously illegal.
The whole thing has a Disney-esque charm going for it.
Yohanna belts out luke warm and wholly inoffensive pop song. It’s not half bad without being mind blowing.
“Dolphin!” Shouts Carrie as a Dolphin floats across the screen in the background of clouds. I think the set has been designed by a 12 year old girl.
If there was a drinking game involving downing shots everytime a wind machine cropped up even George Best would have been shit faced by this stage.
This wasn’t too bad actually.
Blazing into the lead. Iceland!!!
20:39 Greece – Sakis Rouvas – This is our Night!!!
Whoa! Greece’s answer to Chico!!! A man made of entirely of grease swaggers on stage with a clan of backing dancers and throws themselves at the mercy of the Gods of Eurovision with some Robot dancing and, for the lead dancer, a shirt three sizes too small. The gay has arrived.
All starts brilliantly enough but they continue through the camp sound barrier with reckless aplomb and POW! the lead singer does a John Travolta leap off stage!!! Fire works in the background! If you could win just by looking like an energetic bell-end Greece have this in the bag. Euro pop tastic…..
He’s now leapt back on stage (make your mind up) and is gesticulating from his tread mill to his sexy dancers like a Chippendale magician of love. “You are under my spell mwhahaha!”
This is camper than a group of ramblers in a field looking at compasses and drinking from thermos flasks dressed entirely in pink and speaking to each other only in double entendres.
“Will you erect my tent pole Martin?”
Break it down! Funky dance medley! Another leap off stage to fire works AND he’s only gone and ripped his shirt to the navel. The cheeky swine.
For a finale he stands on his stage (which is transformed into a giant stapler) and is lifted to the heavens in time to fireworks.
Euro-gay-disco-tastic.
20:43 Armenia – Inga and Annosh
Christ on a fucking bike. A harem of Armenian harpies dressed like the sheik’s sluts writhe around on stage shrieking and looking mental.
It’s a bit funky but the credit crunch is evidently keeping extravagances to a minimum. The best we have is some laser beams from their finger tips.
The girls dance around to Arabic dance beats. Its shrill and ……
“I’m all sorts of meh about that.” Says Carrie.
20:47 – Russia – Anastasia Prihodko – Mamo
I’m losing the will to type. A woman in a white bath robe is singing unenthusiastically in front of monitors projecting her ageing face. Bit gimmicky.
What is she trying to say? Something about narcissism probably.
According to Graham the singer is a billionaire’s daughter. She should ask her dad for new teeth and gym pass. God I’m a bitch but I’m not saying I’m Brad Pitt, just that if my old man was a billionaire I’m have gnashers whiter than the pearly gates of heaven and Andy McNab as my gym instructor.
“She’s lovely!” Says Carrie, reading the above, even though it was she who mentioned her teeth first. Women.
Losing the will to continue. Enya mixed with Russians? Fail.
20:50 Azerbajian – Aysel and Arash – Sing it always.
Another bloody black and white outfit theme. Azerbaijanis answer to Peter Andre and Jordan start murdering an upbeat dance song and winking to the camera like used car salesmen.
“Hate it.” Says Carrie. Me too. Ohhhh dear….. The dancers hand Peter a fake guitar with no strings that he starts air guitaring with whilst Jordan she stands aloft a wind machine and decides to show the audience her growler.
“We need a buzzer we can press with a trap door.” Says Carrie before pitching me with an idea for a cross between the Running Man and Eurovision and gibbering on about chainsaws and decapitation.
20:54 Bosnia and Herzgovina – Regina – Bistra Voda.
Graham informs us that apparently this band supported the Rolling Stones – maybe through a fan club of sorts as this is shocking. An uber serious coma inducing song performed by a rock band dressed in the purest white and armed with military drums. I have no idea what they’re singing about but I imagine its a call to lay down arms or end war or how they hate mondays or something or rather.
They look like a bundle of laughs this lot.
“We’ve nothing to write about!” Says Carrie whilst looking for dust on the floor.
Bistra Voda should be shot.
21:00 Maldova – Nelly Ciobanu – Hora Din
Warbling alert…..
“Where is Maldova?” Says Carrie. Great question. I say Russia or it was a part of Russia. Which covers all bases doesn’t it?
Brightly coloured rustic folk dance around whilst the warbler fires into a punchy chorus that makes backing dancers River Dance.
“HEY! HEY!” She chants as dancers throw themselves around like plums.
“I haven’t called anyone to win yet.” Says Carrie. Me neither. We could be in with a chance. This lot should be sectioned.
Yes I’ve hit warp bitchy factor 9.
21:04 Malta – Chira – What if we?
Fat lass alert! Or ‘big lady’ as Carrie calls her. Just her on stage. No gimmicks. Just her voice and 4 chins and the sound track to ‘Going for Gold.’
This is emotional guff.
“This could win.” Says Carrie, before caveatting and stating she categorically doesn’t like the song.
Carrie also thinks there is a wind machine on but her hair is sprayed so much it aint flinching.
Three minutes on and she’s still alone and warbling.
The end.
Carrie has realised how many countries is left and is losing the will to live.
She looks like the fat one from Hollyoaks.
21:07 Estonia – Urban Symphony – Randajand
It is literally a symphony! Sparkly Estonian gals in sparkly dresses warble through a pleasant enough number. Nothing. Is. Happening.
Carrie rates the song based purely on the fact they aren’t in black and white.
Where has all the happiness and gay people and transsexuals gone? This isn’t Eurovision! Just a conveyor belt of mediocre opera singers, power ballads and serious types with two tone wardrobes. Nothing has shocked me yet.
It ends. Totally inoffensive.
21:11 Denmark – Brinck – Believe Again.
Ronan Keating wrote this song, he’s also dressed the singer and his lent him his singing voice. The Danish guy is doing an eeriely impressively Ronan impression. He’ll rip off his face to reveal Ronan underneath for the climax.
“I want to believe in love!!!” He bellows.
“If they hadn’t said it was written by Ronan I totally would have known.” Says mystic Carrie.
Vomit inducing stuff. Guitarists high five each other in the background whilst wearing cowboy hats and the drummer bashes away with a manic grin on his face like he’s won the lottery. The Ronan bod just wears a cravat and sings like he’s straddling a harley before sliding to his knees amongst smoke, fireworks and wind machines…..
Power rock shite. This could win. Note to self. Write to Ronan and ask him to die.
21:15 Germany – Miss Kiss Kiss Bang – Alex Swings Oscar Sings
“He’s got disco ball trousers!” Says Carrie about the lead singer who sweats homosexuality, it’s shameless pop shite in the vein of Mambo No 5. This is more like the traditional Eurovision fare.
For added impact the Krauts have hired Dita Von Teese to writhe around in the back like a cat on heat, throwing her waps out and begging for our attention. However Russian state TV has been given strict orders not to focus on her which is a bit rich after their TATU stunt a few years ago where they’d have probably fisted each other on stage for more votes. Travesty. Even Carrie wants to see more Dita.
However there is a lovely tap dancing interlude (always welcome) and Dita eventually saunters up front.
The lead singer, feeling vulnerable, undoes his shirt. Logically.
Guilty pleasure ahoy!!!!!
Me and Carrie have a winner.
Graham Norton proclaims it the evenings low point. Tit.
21:19 Turkey – Hais – Dum Dum Tek Tek
Its Shakira mixed with the Pussycat Dolls. Visually at least as a posse of tone deaf slappers swivel their hips in time to a funky Turkish beat. Making fathers across Europe spit tea everywhere. Belly dancing? Check. Clapping and ‘Hey Hey Hey!’ Check. Wind machine. Checkity check.
Carrie hates this. I agree with her vocally but can see its merits. I think it’s got a decent enough chance.
In amongst the visual noise a random man in green shirt mingles with the red clad belly dancers. He must be the song writer or producer. Or lost. He’s dancing like your older brother at a wedding.
Hmmmmmm curious.
21:22 Albania – Kejsi Tola – Carry me in my dreams.
17 year old in a tutu. Two creepy clown/mime artists and a turquoise masked gimp.
“Even with the gimmicks it’s still boring!” States my increasingly bored side kick. “This is yawn tastic!”
I have no words for this song. She sits on some of her side kicks. They do some reasonable break dancing and body popping.
Carrie states that someone needs to have an accident to spice things up before again talking about the Running Man theory and the need for a chainsaw wielding lunatic.
“BORINGG!” Says Carrie before agreeing that she’s missing Terry. Even Graham Norton is boring.
21:27 Norway – Alexander Rybak – Fairytale
Zac Efron fiddles and tap dances around alot before demonstrating his talents end at singing. He’s cute enough though. He fiddles more whilst sailors do pressups around him. It’s quite off beat.
Gay undercurrent.
“I’m in love with a fairy tale!!” He screams to the crowd.
“Hmmmm more of a fiddler than a singer if we’re honest.” Says Carrie as he whips it out again (his fiddle). This is sort of a mix between Eurovision and the happy ending song at the end of a school play.
21:31 – UKRAINE -Svetlana Lobona – Be My Valentine
HOLY SHIT ON A MOTOR BIKE- OLDER BONDAGE BRITNEY WITH TOO MUCH PLASTIC SURGERY IS BROUGHT ON STAGE MY CHIPPENDALE GLADIATORS IN METAL SPINNING DISCS.
She’s dirty. Gyrating like a slag in her teens. I.e. someone twenty years her junior. There is fire. She spins to a drum set and mimes a drum solo like she’s having a fit whilst her kit is dragged across the stage by the gladiators. Fuck me sideways.
She’s screaming about her dirty bum bum. Its like your glamorous drunken Aunt winning the lottery and going squirrel shit crazy.
21:35 Romania – Elena – The Balkan Girls
Me and Carrie veto this song based on the fact she’s miming and the real singer is offstage. Rosa Parks wouldn’t stand for this sort of segregation. Ugly singers have feelings too.
Boooooooooo
21:39 England – Jade Ewen – Its My Time
Whoa! This is actually quite polished and good. All goes well until Jade gets carried away and strikes a violinist with her alien hand syndrome – she’s gesticulating wildly. Bless.
“She’s like a miss world contestant” says Carrie as Jade smiles straight down the camera. Straight into the loins of all male voters.
She’s killing us with her stupendous Mariah impersonation.
The end. Very impressive.
Andrew Llyod Webber is crying. Or his face is melting. Its hard to know.
She finishes with a stupid hair flick. Milking it like no tomorrow.
21:43 Finland -Waldos People – Lose Control
Nnnnrghhhh. Dance mixed with ageing Eminem mixed with fire dancers mixed with warbling mixed with a tonne of shite and a dash of a migraine. Its pretentious and awful. Pure Eurovision.
The rapper is wearing a bandanna and cap backwards with all the conviction of Tony Blair throwing up gang signs. He’s probably an accountant.
Carrie has incorrectly stated the chorus does sound like “I’ve feel like I’ve lost control I’ve farted.”
I think the last word is meant to be ‘fallen’ however ‘farted’ is stuck there. Damn her.
Techno techno techno!
“That was awful.” I agree. At least they’ve still got motor racing.
21:47 Spain- Soraya Arnelas – La Noche Es Para Mi
I’ve stopped caring. Its all just background noise. The sole gimmick they have is an orange towel which the lead singer uses to disappear behind.
“Make it stop!!!” Says Carrie. I agree. Carpet bomb the stadium.
The warble ends.
Carrie makes a noise like a death rattle.
Its going to be strange watching the Eurovision without my confidant and partner in crime Terry Wogan, gibbering in my ear luck an inebriated Uncle, sarcastically berating budget European Butlins acts. I still think he should be incorporated in it somehow, we know he’ll be watching, maybe if you push the red button we could see a web cam of him in his soiled y-fronts and smoking jacket in his living room, swaying around dangerously in his arm chair surrounded by an army of empty bottles. Sobbing sporadically at himself when no one was looking and mumbling bitterly about political voting.
“Drink! Feck! Girls!”
Instead the Beeb in its infinite wisdom has decided to promote Graham Norton to the role of bitchy commentator. Its a bold move as the appeal of Terry was that you could rely on him to save you the effort of vocalising your internal monologue. I fondly remember three years ago when the Ukrainian host, a horrid cross between a fully grown Pinocchio, a child with ADD and pedophile yelled at five hundred decibels “AND THIS SHOW HAS BEEN NICE YES? I AM HOPING TO SEE YOU NEXT YEAR! BYE!!”
“Not if we take you out back and shoot you.” Slurred Terry, sounding like a drunk Gerry Adams.
Classic.
Graham Norton in comparison will be in Heaven, and I don’t mean the gay club, that’d look like a Yorkshire working mens club during the miners strike compared to the events which will unfold on Saturday night. He’ll rip them to bits but he’ll be loving the garish brilliance of it all, the barbs won’t carry the same weight as Terry was a man who truly despised Eurovision and I suspect watched it for the same reason people slow down at traffic accidents. You just can’t help but look at all the carnage. What they really needed to do was get either Prince Philip, Brian Blesssed or even Boris Johnson in, it’d spark an international relations incident but it’d be worth it to see Philip eventually apologise for questioning whether the host had a visa.
“They’re not in the country your majesty.”
“Not yet….” Philip will reply whilst loading his shotgun.
Anyway here are 5 things I’m looking forward to this Saturday:-
1) The camera cutting to the English entry as Ireland finally give us a handful points and a wooden spoon. Jade Ewen will smile and wave over enthusiastically at the camera and mouth ‘please remember me’ whilst Sir Andrew Llyod Webber will also smile but only with the aid of two assistants diligently pulling back whatever loose skin they can find on his face with industrial strength bull dog clips so he can bear his teeth.
Small children around Europe will ask Mummy whats wrong with lecherous mans face.
“I think he’s a burns victim.” They will reply as a cold shiver runs down their spine.
2) One Eastern European entry will, from first glances appear to be a beautiful woman. You’ll sit up and take note until the camera pans closer and you realise she has hands like shovels, biceps like bags of potatoes and a neck so wide that she could swallow a bowling bowl without it touching the sides. She’ll be awful.We’ll all laugh at how bad it is.
There is a 50% chance she will win.
There will also be a stunning beautiful Eastern European girl who will sing an amazing ballad and be EVERYONES favourite in the room to win. She will finish mid table. Every sane person in Europe will wonder what the fuck is going on.
3) There will be a moment where you’ll be laughing so hard at an act that is so horrendous that you exam your drink for traces of drugs. They will be playing dance music with just cow bells and spastic confidence and just when it reaches an unbearable crescendo of awfulness and your stomach feels fit to burst four orange midget contortionists will parachute onto the stage and fellatio each other into a magnificent climatic finale where they orgasm at the precise moment the confetti rains down. The crowd will go bananas.
You promise yourself never to go to Estonia.
4) The camera will cut to a country, probably Finland which has decided to hire an anchor who has the worlds shiniest teeth but was only introduced to the English language the day before programming and has the IQ of a pile of wood shavings. Somehow, despite twenty other countries already showing them how it is done, they’ll conspire to fuck up reading out a list of countries and numbers. In the end it gets so painful the computer will update the scores without them and they’ll be cut them off as their trying to pronounce Lichtenstein.
If Terry was there he’d just gently chuckle to himself and say “Ohhh jesus…. the Finns…. someone take the happy juice off her.”
See also:- A anchor in one country has to apologise and stop proceedings to jam their tongue up the host countries arse and search for lost gold with a cringe inducing speech ‘Before I give out the points I just have to say Natasha you look beautiful and wow what an amazing show you have put on. You guys are fantastic.’ The host will return this compliment by laughing insincerely and asking them to get on with it.
See also:- The French are the only country to show their contempt for proceedings by refusing to speak English when they give out their points.
See also:- Agonising delay between presenters and awarding country. Anchor in Khazistan wearing animal skins will looks at head piece like some foreign alien technology. “Haaaaalllloooooo. Can. Anyone hear me?”
See also:- One country each year must supply a swamp donkey with a mono-brow to read out the results. Causing everyone to go silent. Sometimes Britain use Loraine Kelly.
5) One country will supply an act which is knowingly taking the piss and will be amazing or will actually be so genuinely good you actually forget you’re watching Eurovision. Chances are they’ll crash and burn without a trace. There will be also one contestant who has far too much plastic surgery. There is a danger they will melt if they get too close to the lighting rig.
Please see: -
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iXD_oJlspiA
