Baku to 1993 . . .

And so the plucky journalists from around Europe are heaving their suitcases to the airport as they prepare to cross about 42 time zones in search of Eurovision joy in Baku. Do I envy them? Maybe not as much as I would have done almost twenty years ago. Back in the day, Eurovision was a very different animal. There were no semi-finals, no super-sized arena and the likes of Luxembourg rather than Lithuania were taking part. 1993 - a momentous year as I joined the throng and travelled to Eurovision as an accredited delegate.

The contest was being staged in the tiny village of Millstreet, County Cork as Irish broadcaster RTÉ wanted to try something a little different - and boy was this different! A showjumping arena had been transformed into a state-of-the-art music venue and broadcast centre. Yours truly dragged himself to Stansted for the flight to Cork and then the never-ending bus journey to Killarney. The following morning, another forty minute bus journey to the venue in Millstreet where everyone was accredited in the local primary school.

As well as the accredited press, the venue also seemed to have more than its fair share of nuns! They were everywhere, other than conducting the orchestra and singing the songs. En mass, they whisked through the auditorium, clutching press packs and Sonia CDs. Oh yes - this was the year when Sonia braved it for the UK. Her press conference performances were legend. When asked what European language she would like to record her song in, she burbled "Japanese" to a gasping audience.

One keenly anticipated moment was the daily totting up of delegate votes as they all tried to predict who was going to win. How uncomfortable it was to see the grim, uimpressed faces of the Danish delegation as their entry slid to the bottom of the scoreboard. Or the weary looking duo from Luxembourg, a country which hasn't participated since. Sonia polled in tenth place with the delegates and grinned inanely at the scoreboard until someone wheeled her away.

Politics reared its head at the 1993 contest. We were all rather amazed at the appearance of the delegation from Bosnia & Herzegovina, given that war was raging in the country at the time. Steely-faced head of delegation, Ismeta Kravavac when asked "How did you manage to get out of Sarajevo twice?" replied "Because I am a very fast runner sir". Indeed. The world's media gathered for the Bosnian press conference and Ismeta reminded them that the delegation were attending as musicians not politicians. We didn't really believe her. A few were worried that they sympathy vote would swing Bosnia's way and take the 1994 contest to a warzone. Saturday night would prove otherwise ...

Aside from the songs, Eurovision is also about partying and alcohol. Much alcohol. As well as music, countries are also rated on the quality of their party. The UK's, as ever, was a lacklustre affair. Dear old Auntie provided a free bar for around five minutes and wowed the international delegates with a selection of crudities smothered in Primula spread. Belgium cut to the chase and seemingly handed everyone a crate a beer at their party. Happy faces all round, although not on the faces of the Belgians on Saturday night as they headed home with just three points. The star party was given by Iceland who ensured that all attendees downed a vicious shot of something called Black Death before they had even entered the room. Result? Most people  staggered into the night and remembered little the next day.

Always fun are the odd (in more ways than one) delegates who turn up. Slovakia sent a team of one, Mrs Jasemova, to prepare her nation for its song contest debut in 1994. Resplendent in a designer jacket, Mrs Jasemova (and indeed the aforementioned jacket) became one of the enduring stars of the Eurovision circuit for a few years. A round of applause too for the husband and wife team commentating for Korea (presumably South . . .) and the British journalist who had travelled down to Millstreet in a camper van because his publication refused to foot the bill for expenses!

For the singers, taking part seemed to be a mixed experience. Sweden's teenage boyband, Arvingarna, looked perpetually bored and were accompanied everywhere by their parents. Burak Aydos, representing Turkey, had the air of someone who was out of his comfort zone. His song was disliked by the majority and his press conference was a lacklustre affair made worse by the song being handed to the press on cassette tape only. Other singers though were a total joy. The Netherlands' Ruth Jacott topped the delegates poll and shone in the way that only a true professional can. Patrick Fiori, representing France, proved to be fun and personable as did the Irish singer Niamh Kavanagh who had a ball on home turf. Portugal's sixteen year old Anabel was innocence personified but what a voice!

As for me, I made a beeline for the fearsome singer from Israel, Saraleh Sharon. Or Sara Lee Shalom as one fellow journo managed to pronounce it, making the poor woman sound like a bar mitzvah celebration cake. Anyway, old Saraleh was a scary piece of work, ordering her fellow singers around the stage like a headmistress with a bad attitude. Divisions grew as the week went on until one of Saraleh's co-singers barked "Does she not realise that I am an artist too?" rather loudly after one otwo sweet sherries. As contest night drew closer, the other singers hatched a plan. Those of us in the know kept quiet but I decided to seek out the harridan-in-charge for a cosy 'getting to know you' chat. Did she have any words of wisdom to impart for the viewers of Europe. Saraleh pulled me closer with a wintry smile and snarled "Sing and the whole world sings with you." I couldn't really argue with that.

Come May 15th and it was contest day itself. The previous night's dress rehearsal had been a disaster with delegation after delegation complaining about the camera direction and hostess Fionnuala Sweeney being less than happy with her, it has to be said, nasty pink party frock. Would it be all right on the night? Due to the lengthy journey into Millstreet and the security lockdown at the venue, we all had to travel in full evening costume first thing in the morning. It was a long day with only the final dress rehearsal to sit through plus a meal in a distant catering tent. By 7pm the place was filled with the local glitterati, the Irish PM and of course, Wogan. Would Sonia make the top ten? Would the delegates favourite Ruth Jacott top the scoreboard and could the downbeat Danes avoid last place?

The early leaders included Switzerland's Annie Cotton, belting out a halting mid-tempo number and incredibly tall Norwegian teenager Silje Vige who seemed to be channeling something Greek. However, it soom became a two-horse race, appropriate in this venue, between the host nation's Niamh Kavanagh and a surprisingly polished perfomance from the UK's Sonia. Not being a fan of the cheesy British entry and having already met the somewhat wonderful Niamh, I prayed for an Irish victory. The voting to-ed and fro-ed between the two and it was only the very last vote awarded by Malta that ensured the title stayed in Ireland. Relief!

The immediate after-show reception was something else. Jubilant bar staff were handing people not just a glass of champagne but a whole bottle. Not that I was there long before being herded on to a coach bound for the official winner's reception in Killarney. There I was, on a coach filled with inebriated journalists and performers. From the loud, unpleasant backing singers from one country to the indiscreet conductor from another, we all sang our way to a festival of even more booze. At the hotel, the singers began to pour in, some deflated, others jubilant and all relieved. It had been a long journey for most of them in more ways than one. For the sombre Danes, no last place but relegation. For Israel's Saraleh Sharon, an onstage revolt planned by her co-singers didn't bring any more than a sorry 24th place.

For me, the cold light of day brought the prospect of a journey back to Derbyshire. It had been an amazing week and one brought to a successful conclusion by a highly professional team from RTÉ. Rather than sit on their laurels, these same people now had to plan something even better for 1994.

Saturday night's all right . . .

Saturday night telly! Ah - I could rattle on for hours about the joys of yesteryear. In fact, why don't I do that anyway. Let's bathe the 1970s in golden sunlight and wistfully remember how wonderful it all was back in the day. Or was it?

I'm Inspector Darblay and I'm a woman

For me, the opener to the evening was always Final Score as Frank Bough and his comb-over led us through the footie highlights of the day. With tea (never dinner) out of the way, we could settle down to an evening of predominantly BBC1 fare. Doctor Who was still in its imperial phase, with Tom Baker clowning around for the kids and Leila and her bra top providing the entertainment for dad. Then on to the Generation Game, both the Brucey and Larry versions. The former, the consumate all-round entertainer. The latter, a beffudled camp comic from Nuneaton. I loved them both. Scores on the doors? After this frippery, BBC1 would usually serve up a drama. More often than not, this would be Juliet Bravo. Brave times for the Beeb as they depicted a woman - WOMAN - police inspector battling life in a 'grim up north' police station people by overweight middle-aged men. They would call her 'ma'am' (rhymed with 'spam') and roll their eyes every time she issued an edict. Aforementioned lady police inspector would then dash home at 6pm to get a casserole for her understanding (and usually feeble) husband.

"And it's goodnight from . . . oh you known the rest . . ."

The Two Ronnies was another fave in our household. Always the same week in, week out. Two sets of specs at a newsdesk, a couple of sketches set in corner shops or cocktail parties, some serialised story forever starring Diana Dors, Ronnie Barker in a frock and a song from the lovely Miss Barbara Dickson. That's entertainment!

I'm not going to suggest that these halcyon days have returned but at the moment, Saturday nights have shown a distinct improvement. BBC1's The Voice has, to date, performed better than expected. Unlike the dreary X Factor, the BBC have provided a panel who actually seem to care about music. OK, Will.iam may be a bit of a twonk but the other three are enthusiastic enough. Reggie Yates continually falls into the Dermot-like falseness of calling the lads 'feller' but other than that, well done the BBC! I feel an e-mail to Points of View in the offing.



A Bridge too far . . .

However, the real gem on Saturday is BBC4's wonderful The Bridge. I'm not the biggest fan of Copenhagen but maybe this superb drama will help reel me in again. The two lead characters are a joy - the overweight, fag-smoking laconic Dane and his uptight, socially inept female Swedish counterpart. I think the BBC should revive Juliet Bravo and have Saga Noren dispense some of her logic to the fat, northern policemen. And remember - don't call her ma'am.

Terry Wogan and a coffee table . . .

Hurrah! So the warmer days have arrived then. Fair enough, they have more or less disappeared overnight and the doom merchants at the Met Office are forecasting a White Easter. Oh well, it will bring me joy to see kids morosely looking for chocolate eggs under three feet of snow.

For me, Easter and sickly confectionery always heralded a high point of the Eurovision season. Yes folks, the songfest is on the horizon and some countries have been busy preparing their ditties. As is common song contest practice, they have also produced an accompanying preview film with which to whet the appetite. These tend to be slick, MTV-standard offerings but that wasn't always the case . . .

"And from Turkey this year, the Modern Folk Trio, a quartet"

Back in the 1980s, I would almost vomit in anticipation of the Easter goodies on offer from the BBC. Over two consecutive Sundays, the joys and horrors of that year's Eurovision would be laid bare. The action would take place in a depressingly small, and often beige, BBC studio. The camera would home in on Terry Wogan and a coffee table. Wry grin and best wig in place, Tel would meander through the entries and surpress a chuckle at the international preview videos. Looking back over those halcyon years, it would be easy to stereotype the films offered by many of the participating countries. For example . . .

Finland
Entrant wearing the pelt of some slaughtered animal, wandering around in the snow. Backng singers would emerge from pine forest and form a line behind her.

Germany
40,000 people gathered in an aircraft hangar near Munich, clapping politely as a hausfrau belts out a Teutonic anthem

Luxembourg and/or Monaco

Woman in vile evening dress superimposed against a backdrop of Monte Carlo or, oh the glamour, Luxembourg airport.

Greece
Singer is shown against a backdrop of white Orthodox churches on Mykonos and then later, bobbing around on a boat withe an eye painted on the prow.

Ireland

Usually filmed in very weak colour, the singer is seen pararding around an eerily deserted Dublin Zoo or stranded by a waterfall. In the rain.

France
Young woman, given a make-under by a make-up artist with conjunctivitis, staggers out in front of a screeching violin-dominated cabaret band, wearing a brown or mustard-coloured frock. Centre parting optional.

Portugal
The stuff of which nightmares are made. Woman travels down the side of a hill in a basket, jumps out, rolls the rest of the way down to a beach, jumps over a camera to reveal her undergarments and then settles down and lights a fag.

Israel
All performers are dressed in white and must re-enact Hava nagila at high speed. The set usually consists of numerous pieces of plastic on bits of string, violently swinging.

United Kingdom

Singers are seen in some dull part of London i.e. the Embankment, clutching umbrellas or wearing M & S macs. Against grey, leaden skies they do anything other than actually mime to the song.

Turkey
Filmed in garish colour, the entrants are forced to pose with, on or under the Bosphorus suspension bridge before mysterioulsy pitching up in Ephesus where they emerge from behind 1000 year old stone pillars.

Italy
A tedious head and shoulder camera shot of the singer wearing over-sized earphones and reading the lyrics to the song from a piece of paper. Apart from 1992 when they didn't bother with any video and just submitted an elderly picture of the singer.

Malta
Singer shown in soft-focus due to their advanced age/humungous girth/receding hairline. Lots of meandering down side streets before huge plugs for Air Malta for the remainder of the film.

Sadly the BBC preview shows were axed many years ago. The last of the Wogan Euro shows was in 1994 and was filmed in front of a live audience and, oddly enough, yours truly was on stage with him. Why? Well, that's another story.

Of course, it's all much more professional now and this year we have been treated to some stark mini-drama from Iceland, a Bosnian woman on a steel girder playing a piano and a Montenegrin bloke running amok with a donkey. Somewhat reassuringly though, Italy's Nina Zilli is resplendent with over-sized earphones and a page of lyrics. She gets my vote . . .

Here comes Summer!

OK, so British Summer Time has arrived. Hurrah! Like most people, I've spent the morning drearing around, changing clocks and moaning about a missed hour's sleep. We'll get over it. Plucky old Britain. On the horizon, or at least we hope so, a gently evolving summer of hot days in the garden and balmy evenings with a cold beer or a glass of wine. Preferably both. The gentle sound of Sunday gardeners mowing their lawns, the evocative noise of a transistor radio commentating on Wimbledon tennis . . . hang on a sec, I seem to be thinking about summer 1977. Let's get real . . .

To begin with, the mere sniff of summer seems to have spawned a rather nasty rash of shorts and flips flops. M'lud, please take a look at exhibit A, Waitrose this afternoon. The usual cast had gathered - harrassed yummy mummy in her jogging bottoms , hair yanked back in an elastic band. Carefully unshaven daddy, bald head and square designer specs loitering over an Observer. The kids - oh God, the kids, pushing their mini trolleys around, screeching at each other and ignoring yummy mummy's plaintive cries of "Cressida, please don't do that". Amongst this bunch this afternoon, I also spotted the bearers of Summer Sadness, predominantly middle-aged men decked out in shorts and flip flops. Lads, it was 10 degrees outside! I'm sorry, half an hour of sunlight over north London does not a summer make. There seems to be some engulfing desperation that propels these loons to don summer attire the minute the clocks go forward. Please no - one of them was even sporting a white trilby. Enough already.

The spirit of the idyllic summer of '77 is unlikely to return, save for the drought of course. The soundtrack to the 21st century summer seems to be dominated by the screams of children, forced into to the garden minus their electronic games, blinking and gasping like albino rabbits. There is also the all-encompassing stench of burning carcass (and no, I don't mean her from down the road slapping on the factor 5). The dreaded barbecue. How anyone can celebrate friendship by offering up slices of botulism to their mates is anyone's guess. Add to this the vaguely threatening sound of ice-cream van music, dogs barking, Bland FM blaring out the hits of yesteryear plus some demented bint bellowing into her mobile and voila! An English summer has been served.

When do the clocks go back?

What's the Point?

Admittedly, I'm a sucker for a TV studio. This is probably because I am quite nosy and like to see what's going on. Over the years, I've been lucky enough to visit on or two studios and have seen life there from both sides of the camera. Oh yes, I've rubbed shoulders with the great and the good.I also met Gloria Hunniford. Away from the stars though, there are the usual studio 'types' to contend with. You will always find a semi-demented researcher with a clipboard stapled to her hands, juggling a coffee and getting your name wrong. There is usually an overly-jolly make-up woman who insists on telling you who she 'did' last week, thinkking that you'll be impressed by the mere mention of Judith Chalmers. Also on the roster is the floor manager, balancing the technical requirements of the studio with the 'loves' and 'darlings' taking part in the production. It's a fascinating and, often, bizarre world.

Armstrong & Osman making a Point

Last night I dragged myself off to BBC Television Centre to see a recording of the cosy tea-time quiz show, Pointless. True to form, the audience was kept waiting on a desperately cold Wood Lane until it was time to be herded in the direction of the BBC Shop. Fifteen minutes later we were rounded up again and shoved in the direction of Studio 4. Amongst the assorted grannies and student-types, there was the usual screeching about how tiny the set was. On came the warm-up guy, a nervous but likeable comic called Josh who kept reassuring us that he wasn't gay. Whatever. He was funny though even when he had to coach us in cheering and whooping like loonies for the contestants. Ah - the contestants!

No one had realised that this was a celebrity edition of Pointless. Necks were craned to get a glimpse of the glitterati. OK so it was Lionel Blair, Angela Rippon, Steve Pemberton, Colin and Justin (do they have surnames?), Konnie Huq, Anjellica Bell and some actor called Sam. Sorry but I have not a clue as to who he is. Presenter Alexander Armstrong entered to much applause but not quite as much as his sidekick Richard Osman. He is one heck of a tall man!

Anyway, a jolly old time was had by all. There were one or two re-takes due to fluffed lines and Angela Rippon continually moving out of shot or even walking off the set. What I really liked though was the manner in which Armstrong and Osman chatted with their guests between takes and even laughed along and aplauded warm-up Josh. I've been at other productions where the presenters smile and courtesy has disappeared as soon as the camera lights went off.

We'lll miss it when it's gone . . . perhaps

A fun old night then and of course, I didn't pay a penny for the ticket. I for one will be a bit sad when TV Centre closes for good. There is something special about the Concrete Donut in Wood Lane.

Tales from Denmark . . .

How are we all coping with January then? We're halfway through and Christmas now seems like a distant memory. The weather is wavering between brisk, cold, bright days and rather overcast stuffy ones. I'm currently feasting on the books that came my way on December 25th. David Downing's Potsdam Station is the latest in a series of books set in Germany before, during and after the last war. Downing ratchets up the suspense with each chapter but does so in a believable way. I found myself rooting for the central characters, John Russell and Effi Koenen at the turn of every page.

My latest read is A Visit from the Goon Squad, Jennifer Egan's Pulizer Prize winning tale of, and I quote, "... moments where lives interact and where fortunes ebb and flow". Fair enough.

Musically I'm reconnecting with Northern Soul at the moment. Not everyone's cuppa I guess but January is definitely the month for hearty tunes. Fine purveyors of such fare include April Stevens, Dottie Cambridge and Muriel Day. April, Dottie & Muriel. You hear of many doting parents lavisihing such names on their kids these days do you? I'd love it for a beaming new Mum to say "Meet baby Mavis!"

I can't see the scoreboard from here . . .

The long road to Eurovision 2012 unwinds before me too. This year's festival of song is being held in Baku, Azerbaijan where the president and his family seem to be 'guiding' preparations along. A venue is being built from scratch and we are promised that the ambitiously named Crystal Hall will be ready by May. Not sure which year though. Anyway entrants to date include the intriguingly named Rambo Amadeus (Montenegro) whose music seems a little . . . err, challenging. Spain have opted for Pastora Soler, a woman whose name sounds like something from a Dulux colour chart. No sign of the BBC's challenger yet but the usual worrying names of Katherine Jenkins, Pixie Lott and JLS abound.

No nonsense Danish PM (ficticious . . .)

Denmark chooses it's Eurovision entry next week but for the moment it is their drama output that seems to proving popular. Although I missed The Killing, I am hooked on the latest Danish froth to wash ashore on BBC4. Borgen is the tale of politics, Copenhagen-style which may sound a bit dry but is far from it. Hero of the hour is Birgitte Nyborg, leader of the Moderate Party who is unexpectedly catapulted into the job of Prime Minister. She is played by the excellent Sidse Babett Knudsen who chooses to portray her as a normal human being as opposed to some manic, disorganised career mum. Special mention should also be made of Birgitte Hjort Sørensen who takes on the role of ambitious (i.e. a bit of a bitch) TV news anchor, Katrine Fønsmark. She may tun out to be a bit of a bad 'un. Anyway, this is certainly a classy production and compelling viewing. Not a woolly jumper in sight either.

Reality check . . .

Christmas is over. There. That's now dealt with. I know a great many people fear January with a passion. The empty month looming ahead. The undecorated living room. Food that doesn't contain 90% lard. It makes you want to weep. YOU maybe but, for the moment at least, not me. Having dragged the tree and tinsel back to the furthest reaches of the garden shed, I slapped my hands together and prepared for 2012. By visiting a nuclear bunker. Yes, I could think of no better way to greet the new year other than by descending into Mother Earth and reliving every nightmare brought on by the BBC's Threads in the 1980s.

Wish you were here? No . . .

Kelvedon Hatch was the bunker in which Thatcher et al would have hunkered down as the rest of the nation was vaporised. Not so much a bunker, more a small town was the impression that I got. It was equipped with a small hospital, offices galore, a massive industrial kitchen and even a BBC studio. As the remnants of humanity were breathing in fallout on the surface, at least they could have done so knowing that Gloria Hunniford was spinning discs in safety.

There is always a need for a bit of comfort telly first thing in January. For a couple of years, this was provided by Celebrity Big Brother. Having seen the line-up for 2012, I visibly sagged and my brain went into standby mode. I've managed to ween myself off most God-awful TV. The last series of the X Factor was definitely (probably . . .) the last one I'll bother with. Celeb BB seems to be peoopled by the usual rent-a-blondes with the ratty hair and black eyes. Add to that a non-entity rapper, a Corrie barmaid and Sonia Jackson from EastEnders and you can feel, the will to watch draining from the nation.

She's gorne forever, ain't she?

Speaking of Enders, I tuned in to the old nonsense on New Year's Day. Now I haven't watched it for a few years so was saddened to discover that Michelle Fowler and Doctor Legg are no longer residents. The only reason I switched it on was to see Pat Butcher in her death throws. Fat Pat. I remember her joining the show back in 1947 (well, it was quite a few years ago), with her peroxide 'biker's helmet' hairdo and M & S flasher mack. For the first year Pat was, if we're being honest, a bit of an old slag. She was the type of woman who lit one fag from the dying embers of her last one and drank the dregs from glasses at parties. However twelve months of being a right old cow began to wear thin, so the producers had Pat beaten up and left for dead. She emerged from her coma as the matriach who snuffed it last week. A nifty bit of re-writing saved us from twenty five years of having to view some clapped out tart propping up the bar at the Queen Vic. She just served from the other side instead.

I'm greeting 2012 then with a pile of books to read, some interesting music to discover (check out Michael Kiwanuka and Bry Webb) plus a few visits to the gym. Already the place is being overrun by chub-armed women and middle managers in corporate gymwear (You work for JP Morgan? Well done you!) I may just escape to a nuclear bunker for a few weeks. Happy New Year!