We are the worst people: Songs from Europe

It's just three weeks until the delights of the Eurovision Song Contest 2015 are upon us. Well, not quite as some of the participating countries chose their entries last November. Eurovision - the gift that keeps on giving.

This year's is the sixtieth event and will be beamed to us from some anonymous looking stadium in Vienna. No doubt it will feature many familiar scenes - three presenters bellowing "Good evening Europe!" in unison. An audience of balding middle-aged men wearing unflattering Holister t-shirts. An interval act that leaves us shrugging with bemusement. A confused looking septuagenarian couple waiting for Katie Boyle to make an appearance.The usual stuff.

Given that we are celebrating sixty years of all things song contest, much of what is on offer is reminiscent of something else. For Sweden see Aviici, Belgium (Lorde), Latvia (FKA twigs) and the UK (Peters & Lee). Whereas Eurovision used to be very much a brand in its own, pleasingly naff, right, nowadays the contest is often an echo of the mainstream pop charts.

It's fair to say that some of the songs can be dismissed. Some more easily than others. In preparation for this article I plugged myself into Albania's entry, "I'm alive" sung by Elhaida Dani. I forgot every nano-second of it so listened again. Then forgot it again. No grand final for the plucky Albanians this time. We can also probably wave a less than fond farewell to Switzerland's "Time to shine". Singer Melanie  Rene may be polishing this particular turd for a while in order for it to glisten in any way at all. Portugal's Leonor Andrade managed to win her local final by failing to hit the right note for three minutes. Also seemingly doomed is Hungary's turgid plea for peace, "Wars for nothing", a song so banal that I wanted to launch a missile at it.

In years gone by many countries stuck tirelessly to long-held musical stereotypes. The Greek entries always veered towards taverna pop, Israel fielded numerous Hava Nagila/Hokey Cokey combinations and Belgium . . . well, whatever. This year it falls to Montenegro's Knez to serve up something moody and Balkan with a slightly shouty chorus and some stringed instrument gamely being plucked   in the background. It's old skool song contest and I love it.

Saccharine Disney-by-numbers ballads have featured for many years and the prime offenders this year are Spain and Russia. The Spanish entry, 'Amanecer' performed by Edurne promises much yet manages to deliver little, save for the endless utterings of 'corazon' and some drums. Russia, meanwhile, offer us blue-eyed, blonde-haired Polian Gagarina who seemingly kicks off her effort with the line "We are the worst people". Who are we to argue? No doubt there will be there traditional annual booing of the Russian entry whether it be for incursions into Ukraine (who are not participating this year) or the country's lousy record on LGBT issues. Why waste breath booing? Just stand in silence - a much weightier message. Songwise though, Russia ticks every Euro box - stomach churning lyrics, key changes, thunderous ending. Anyone fancy a trip to Socchi next year?

Russia aside, the hot favourites for 2015 appear to be Sweden, Italy and ... err, Australia! Yes, in honour of the 60th contest, the Aussies are being allowed in this year. Their entry is deceptively simple in an Olly Murrs kind of way. No clever tricks or sickly lyrics here - just a rather catchy pop tune. Guy Sebastian may just have what it takes to make "Tonight again" this year's winner. Italy has opted for popera, that rather dubious Il Divo musical pottage popular with the likes of "Britain's Got Talent" audiences. Indeed, the Italian entrants are called Il Volo and "Grande amore" is exactly what you would expect of this genre. Their biggest challenge though is from five times winners, Sweden. Måns Zelmerlöw's "Heroes" is about as relevant to the charts as a song can be and though it seems to have many detractors, the Swedish entry is the one that sounds most like a winner. Which means it will probably finish 11th.

Of the rest, you can look forward to a woman in a wedding dress and chunky headphones (Slovenia), the world's oldest looking 16 year old (Israel), two separate entries called "Warrior" (Georgia and Malta), some large specs (Cyprus), a second consecutive year of long hair and a beard (Austria) and huge cleavage (both his and hers from the Czech Republic).

As for the UK, well at least we go into the contest with singers who can perform and who are not trying to jump start a flagging career. David Mindel's "Still in love with you" will be performed by Electro Velvet, out first male/female duo since . . . well, since that year we came 26th with no points whatsoever. No chance of that happening this year though and we will steel ourselves for a possible spot on the left-hand side of the scoreboard.

Viel Glück in Wien!

Rescheduling Christmas Day

There's been much gnashing of teeth and clasping of hands over the past few weeks, particularly in the House of Commons, over something vitally important to the nation. Global warming? No. International terrorism? No. George Osbourne's 'Gladys Pugh' hairdo? Thrice no. MPs were having a collective strop about the state of Britain's Christmas TV schedule. A speedy calculation from some boff confirmed that 63% of TV output over the festive season consists of repeats.

As usual, there was the maudlin harking back to TV Christmas past and wonderful it all was. How we all gathered, bathed in nostalgia, to praise the programmes lovingly crafted for us by Auntie Beeb and her common sister-in-law, ITV. Was it all that great though?

Our first port of call then is 1974, a land of horrible clothes and multiple general elections. The BBC's festive fare had all the appeal of a scabby turkey. As ever, they kicked things off with one of those mawkish visits to a children's home. That particular year it was in the company of Rolf Harris. A-hem. With a Savile-fronted Top of the Pops soon to follow, it's a surprise that the entire schedule hasn't been consigned to a wicker man and burnt. The big film of the day was that Christmas favourite True Grit, boring us all nicely for almost four hours. For the Beeb, the big turn of the day was Frank Spencer in a festive Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em. Fifty minutes of misunderstandings and pratfalls.

Aside from a Parkinson special on Morecambe & Wise (there was no Christmas special from them in 1974), all BBC1 could offer was Bridge Over the River Kwai. Nothing like a bit of festive war to warm the cockles.

 

Given the BBC's shoddy line-up, maybe 1974 would be ITV's year? Well, they began with their perennial non-favourite, A Merry Morning. Here we had Leslie Crowther shuffling around the wards of a children's hospital. Another finger-wagging 'lest we forget' moment. Opposing 'the Pops' on BBC1, ITV had Kid Jensen fronting 45 (remember that?) with guests including  - the Bay City Rollers! One Direction in tartan flares,for those under twenty. At least ITV had the decency to wheel out a family film, namely Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines. Hurrah! However, this tactical lead petered away thanks to Meet Peters & Lee at 5.45. Thirty minutes of comedy and song . . . apparently. ITV then ploughed on with a Tommy Cooper special and This Is Your Life before admitting defeat with The Undefeated, another festive outing for John Wayne.

A fairly dreary mid-seventies menu of nothing then. Had things improved by 1984? BBC1 had ditched its 'weep for the children' slot in favour of Noel Edmonds and The Late Late Breakfast Show. Ninety minutes of live broadcasting from Telecom Tower in London may not have been the greatest of ideas but full marks to Auntie for trying something different. They did the same with Top of the Pops by ditching all involvement with Radio One DJs and thus the featured acts introduced each other. Mary Poppins was the day's big film, cheery family stuff, followed by Les Dawson's Blankety Blank. Dawson had replaced Terry Wogan earlier that year and had garnered an audience of twelve million. A decent figure then but massive by 2014 standards. The BBC evening rattled on with camp goings on in Hi De Hi, a Paul Daniel's magic show and the highly successful bitter-sweet comedy Just Good Friends. Wogan brought things to a close with guests including Elton John and Victoria Principal.

Over on ITV we were in the era of Roland Rat on TV-AM. Still probably better than cameras on paediatric wards though. Things rumbled on in a dull manner with the likes of a Torvill and Dean ice show and the James Bond film The Man With the Golden Gun - which had been ITV's Christmas Day film just four years earlier! To accompany the mince pies and hangovers, the parlour game Give Us a Clue was rolled out (Wayne Sleep, Julie Walters and Bernie Winters featured). ITV then spent almost two hours remembering the late Eric Morecambe before serving up Raiders of the Lost Ark. A decent stab at a festive schedule but nowhere near as good as the BBC.

Christmas Day 1994 fell on a Sunday and so BBC1 clung to some of its standard programming such as Songs of Praise (featuring Marti Caine in Lapland and a house party with Don Maclean) and rather oddly, the EastEnders omnibus at lunchtime. The Top of the Pops special was hosted by Take That and no doubt they will feature on the 2014 show too. There's progress for you. After the Queen, the Beeb gave us one of those Noel Edmonds weep-a-thons followed by Animal Hospital (really?) The Wrong Trousers, Keeping Up Appearances and the usual cheerless festive edition of EastEnders served as a warm-up for the big film, Robin Hood - Prince of Thieves. Yawn. Anyone fancy a bit of Christmas cake? Oh where was I? Birds of a Feather, a Victoria Wood special and Eddie Murphy in Trading Places followed. Well done the BBC!

ITV tried to tempt us with an early afternoon 'made for TV' movie starring Ed Asner. OK. Oddly there were regional opt-outs for the big movie, some showing Mary Poppins (again) while others plumped for The Empire Strikes Back. The Disney production of Sleeping Beauty followed and then we were into Coronation Street, the hoary old dating show Blind Date and pedestrian-yet-popular Heartbeat. Stodgy fare but a decent attempt to outdo the Beeb.

In 2004, Reggie Yeates and Fearne Cotton hosted their first Christmas Day Top of the Pops. They are still there today. Handing out the Christmas presents and weepy stories was Dale Winton, stepping into Noel's very tiny shoes. A popular concept which was perhaps outstaying its welcome by 2004. BBC1's big afternoon film was 102 Dalmatians after which Alistair McGowan served up a Big Impression. The came two and a half hours of Harry Potter. Someone must like it. Slap bang in the middle of prime time came an hour long EastEnders which managed to top the ratings despite being not so good. Both French and Saunders then featured on BBC1 - although not together. The Vicar of Dibley was followed by Absolutely Fabulous. Both great comedies but which were nearing the end of the line.

ITV's 2004 afternoon kicked off after HM with Martin Clunes in Goodbye Mister Chips, a period drama. Well it made a change from James Bond. Harry Hill was now in charge of You've Been Framed, a welcome addition to the big day unlike ratings juggernaut Who Wants to Be a Millionaire which was finally running out of steam. Only half an hour for Emmerdale in 2004 but a full sixty minutes for Karen McDonald's Coronation Street departure. ITV then waved the white flag and admitted defeat by throwing out Midsomer Murders and the newly-defected Parkinson. The BBC had won the day yet again.

There we go then. Christmas past. Whether the likes of Doctor Who, Strictly Come Dancing and Paul O'Grady's For the Love of Dogs can match the success of yesteryear is yet to be seen. We will probably have forgotten them by Boxing Day though.

Read all about it

It's that 'funny' time of year. I have now entered that zone where no further purchases can be made, 'just in case someone buys it for you for Christmas'. The advent of Peter Andre buying a prawn crown in Iceland and another slightly mawkish John Lewis ad (someone should dip that penguin in chocolate . . .) and we are just about ready to ding dong merrily on high.

No more book purchases then. Which is perhaps a good thing, given that there is a bookcase in the spare room stuffed with tomes waiting to be read. The epic hardback about the history of Jerusalem, some Stephen King pot-boiler a paperback about countryside walks in Palestine - some are new editions, others have mouldered on the shelves for years. Absolutely no reason to go out an buy more then.

The approach to Christmas, where reading material is concerned, has to be a carefully considered one for me. I've always though that the weeks leading up to turkey and the Doctor Who special require the literary equivalent to mood music. To this end, I've got Jostein Gaarder's The Christmas Mystery standing by. Previous years reveal other such festive offerings on display. There have been a couple of Stella Gibbons novels, namely Cold Comfort Farm and Christmas at Cold Comfort Farm. If you really want to nestle down in a tale of family festivities, then there is none better than India Knight's Comfort & Joy. You can almost smell the mince pies and mulled wine. One year I opted for John Braine's magnificent Room at the Top. It's not particularly festive but has a kind of northern bleakness that resonates. Although I didn't grow up in the book's time-frame, it somehow reminds me of home and that's always a good thought to have at Christmas.

If you don't want to wallow in sentiment, then a good alternative is David Park's The Light of Amsterdam. This is a tidy little tale of various people heading to the Dutch capital in December, all with their own hopes for Christmas but also with their own worries.

Looking back over the year's reads and I see a fairly mixed bunch. Three of my highlights feature authors whose use of language was at best, sparing. Denis Johnson's Train Dreams is the beautifully written story of a labourer living in the unforgiving American west, in the early twentieth century. Also proving that less-is-more was The Bookshop, a taut tale of small town rivalries in Suffolk, penned by Penelope Fitzgerald. Brevity of language was also what endeared Tobias Wolff's Old School to me. Again, we are presented with a story of competition but perhaps the outcome is a little more positive.

 The worst read for this year was Richard Milward's Kimberly's Capital Punishment. The premise is fairly bleak to begin with (suicide) but the story evolves in such a nonsensical way that it was a joy to finish reading it. Maybe one for the charity shop or the recycling bin.

Otherwise, there have been one or two gems. In no particular order, here are ten that I have enjoyed in 2014:

Malcolm Bradbury - The History Man
Alan Johnson - This Boy
Peter Robinson - Abbatoir Blues
Kevin Maher - The Fields
J.L. Carr - A Month in the Country
A.M. Homes - May We Be Forgiven
David Sedaris - Let's Explore Diabetes With Owls
Armistead Maupin - The Days of Anna Madrigal
Bret Easton Ellis - American Psycho
Karl Taro Greenfeld - Triburbia

Just a selection then, but a few varied titles that have accompanied me on commutes into the City, holidays, train journeys and weekends on the sofa. Whether I attack the Mighty Unread in that bookcase next year remains to be seen.

In Molly we trust

Twelve months ago I found myself in the delightful situation of travelling across the Oresund Bridge aka The Bridge from Copenhagen to Malmo. This wasn't just any old tourist trip but a sacred pilgrimage to the Eurovision Song Contest. Within the confines of the Malmo Arena I feasted on a lumpy German dance diva, a world-weary Dutch woman emoting about birds, a Norwegian feeding us her love and Bonnie Tyler. Poor old Bonnie. The highpoint of the UK's evening was seven hard-earned points from Ireland and just a further sixteen from the rest of Europe. Oh the shame. Again. Denmark won with the drum and tin whistle epic served up by the highly forgettable Emmelie de Forest. This year then, a trip back across The Bridge to wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen and some disused factory.

The BBC have seemingly risen to the challenge of finding a worthy UK entrant this year. No more flicking through their directory of cabaret contacts. Oh no. Instead we have Molly. Here's a woman who knows her craft and has written the entry herself. She's emerged from the same arena that launched Florence & the Machine and Jake Bugg onto the world. There is more to new talent than mind-numbing Saturday night talent shows. Ironic then that Molly now finds herself on the biggest Saturday night talent show of them all. Is Children of the Universe the right kind of song to appeal across Europe though?

The rest of the continent probably thinks it has it nailed too. To my weary ears, the overall standard seems to be much better than last year. Europe's legion of Eurofans seem to think that Scandinavia has it in the bag again. Sweden's Sanna Nielsen has certainly worked that ticket - she's been trying for the contest since 2001. Undo is one of those slightly depressing ballads that tend to surface on Celine Dion albums. Also rated is Norway's Carl Espen with a wrist-slitting dirge, the likes of which we haven't seen since the last John Lewis Christmas advert.

Maybe the pick of the ballads coms from Austria's Conchita Wurst, resplendent in golden gown and a nice black beard. Seriously. Conchita's campaign for tolerance is laudable but she also has a cracker of a song. Rise like a phoenix is Bond-esque but its success will depend on how voters cope with the visual aspect of Conchita.

Shouty, bold women are to the fore this year. Macedonia's Tijana (lumbered with a song which rhymes 'to the sky' with 'you and I') has been bested by Italy's top pop diva Emma  who in turn is succeeded by Israel's Mei Finegold. The latter is a one woman homage to strutting and meaty thighs. Mei's entry, Same heart, should see Israel in the final after a four year absence.

If it's pure fun that you are after then look no further than Poland. Saucy minxes perform a tongue-in-cheek slice of naughtiness which has already registered around 40 million hits on You Tube. Great tune too and the whole thing is in keeping with the spirit of Eurovision. Katie Boyle would be proud. Cash-strapped Greece are offering up some fun too with the kind of song that pumps out in gyms across the world. As if to emphasise the point, the singers have brought along an Olympic trampoline star to bounce along during their performance of Rise up. Silly but fun.

There are no real obvious 'nil point' contenders this year although Ireland's tin whistles and Riverdance effort may be down near the bottom of the Euro barrel. Add to that Latvia's paean to cake-baking (they need Mary Berry on the jury for that to work) and Switzerland's irritating whistler and there are your weakest links.

Who could win then? Hungary are highly fancied even if their song deals with the less than Eurovision friendly subject of child abuse. Running by Andras Kallay-Saunders is well-performed and as contemporary as you get. Dilara Kazimva of Azerbaijan has a superb, emotional ballad that may resonate across the continent. I'm sticking some money on Malta though. Coming home by Firelight has the right kind of Mumford-lite/Radio 2 sound to appeal to many. Importantly, they look as though they are enjoying themselves too.

For the hardy fan (me) there are a couple of semi-finals to plough through tis coming week before the main event on 10 May with Graham Norton taking on the delights of the disused factory, shouty women, Greeks on trampolines and the Go Compare man singing about his mother for Belgium. No doubt he will also be looking to see if the UK can sidle up the left-hand side of the scoreboard for once. In Molly we trust? Of course!

Raining on the BBC's parade

I wasn't the only person who, last last night, heard a plane making a terrifying noise over north east London. Storm-force winds were battering the capital and for a couple of spine-chilling moments, there was the fear that an aircraft might be in trouble. Thankfully, all was well and for more than one reason, let's be grateful that nothing more came of it, otherwise we would now be knee-deep in over-the-top news coverage.

The rains came this week and the unfolding horror story of swollen rivers and flooded homes was covered, particularly by the BBC, with a manic zeal. In order to emphasise the Armageddon factor, BBC news teams were sent to the front line. Cue a never-ending roster of rain-soaked, wind-blown reporters, flailing around on promenades, wading through living rooms, striding through sodden farmyards and generally over-egging a rather damp pudding.

Most of us are grateful that there is coverage but some of it seemed inane and more than a little dangerous. Do BBC reporters really have to stand on a beach with fearsome sea waves crashing around them? Are we to continually be treated to some hapless woman clutching at her North Face jackets whilst attempting to interview a member of the local council? Add to that the BBC new anchors, forever gesticulating and slowly shaking their heads from side to side in amazed reaction. "Can you believe it?" they seem to emoting as they stride around their red, plastic set. Seemingly the days of a straightforward presentation of the news are long gone. Sky News is a non-stop visual nightmare of BREAKING NEWS captions and whooshing sound effects, a constant babble of non-entities sat on the sofa while a disinterested anchor peers down on them from some form of news throne.

Luddite that I am, I hanker for the days of the restrained tones of Kenneth Kendall or Richard Baker, of correspondents safely seated in the studio or observing from a distance, of news studios decked out in beige. I really don't need every utterance to be preceded by a screeching orchestral fanfare prior to the appearance of an over-emoting news anchor whirling their hands around like a windmill in a gale. It's not clever. It's not interesting. It's not Jan Leeming.

Doctor! Doctor!

Well there is no escaping from the cultural highlight of the weekend. I daresay many people are now wholeheartedly sick of the BBC's Doctor Who love-in. For an entire week we have been bombarded with clips of grainy 1960s film depicting an old man in a daft hat (or if you were watching the JFK coverage, Jackie Kennedy in a daft hat).

Were you ever scared of Doctor Who back in the day? I'm speaking literally. My first encounter with the Time Lord was way back in he mid seventies during Jon Pertwee's tenure. His depiction of the Doctor scared me witless. It must have been the combination of old, slightly gummy man, big cape, mad hair. Forget Cybermen and what-not. It was the Doctor himself who scared me rigid.

I had no problems with Tom Baker though. For me this was the imperial phase of the show. Tom's Doctor could be chilling but was also a bit of a laugh. Once you had navigated yourself past his terrifying 'eyes and teeth' combo, all was well with his universe. Yet our general memory of this era is one of tacky sets and cheap-looking monsters. The Doctor and his assistant, the latter seemingly always a short-skirted hysterical woman, spent entire episodes charging up and down corridors and dashing through up-and-under garage doors sprayed silver. The baddy was inevitably someone of the Beryl Reid ilk, wearing a futuristic polo-necked jumper with a few bit of old hosepipe jammed on her head. She was always an inhabitants of a planet with a name like Tharg. Then the assistants got camper (day-glo jumpsuits, air hostess outfits) and even the poor old Doctor himself was either portrayed as a buffoon or horribly sinister. I switched off.

1996 film aside, the new batch of Doctor stories have been a must for me. They epitomise good drama that works on several levels. For the kids, a chance to be scared my creepy things from other worlds and for mum and dad, a slice of fine storytelling. The calibre of the acting has been wonderful too. We have had three very different Doctors - the northern one in the leather jacket, the toothy one in the suit and the current bow-tied madcap incumbent. For me, Billie Piper as companion Rose was a revelation as was Karen Gillen's Amy Pond. No more screaming down B & Q-standard sets.

Doctor Who has always been about escapism and perhaps it's better not to over-analyse exactly what the show has come to represent over the years. There is no doubting its cultural impact and its successful 21st century renaissance but for me it's just a piece of rather good entertainment.

On the day of it's fiftieth anniversary we find the Doctor in rude health and preparing to head off into an unknown future in the guise of Peter Capaldi. Will you be watching? I will - and hopefully not from behind a sofa.

Six glorious weeks . . .

It's the least wonderful time of the year. With a heavy heart this week came the realisation that school, as Alice Cooper once succinctly put it, is out. For the summer. God help us. Yes, the never-ending roster of discos, summer visits and end-of-term proms (don't get me started . . .) are over and the little darlings are now free to roam the streets until early September. In other words, they are free to blight our summer. By the time these precious darlings are safely locked behind the school gates, Blue Peter will be lighting the first candle on its Advent crown.

For those of us lucky enough to live in the nation's capital, this time of year offers something of a double-edged sword. I will rejoice, like Thatcher stumbling towards a bank of microphones, at the prospect of early morning Tube trains being a little quieter. Parents are off on their holidays which means more space for me to plonk myself down. Shops are quieter at the weekends, particularly Waitrose as all the teachers who normally fill the play are taking identical breaks in Provence. So far so good. However, the evening rush hour takes on nightmarish proportions. Already the Central Line, shimmering nicely in over 30 degrees of sweaty heat, must now find space for the weary, wan-faced grandparents hauling little Jake and Lucy back from a fascinating day at the British Museum. On they cram, jamming their bums on seats meant for haggard office workers with mean faces and thin lips. Enough of me for the moment though.

My own childhood memories of the six week break are, of course, bathed in the rosy glow of nostalgia. The break would always begin well, buffeted by the sheer relief that we didn't have to crouch over a slice of toast whilst listening to Wogan at 8 a.m. every day. Hurrah for that! There would be other signs of a change n the routine. Salads and the summery joy that was Instant Whip would make an appearance on the menu. Dad would suddenly be around for a week or so. Mum would shepherd us to the park with an array of tennis racquets and foiled-wrapped potted beef sandwiches. There would be the day trips to seemingly random places - Blackpool, Cheltenham and the ever-popular York. Also on the cards, the traditional visit to the local swimming pool with a friend and his mum, the latter of whom would appear poolside, decked out in a floral bathing cap and goggles. Oh the shame of it all.

Of course, there was always the chance to watch some holiday TV which back in the 1970s usually meant the insufferable Why Don't You? followed by the delights of Crown Court and Afternoon Plus where Mavis Nicholson would be looking at a new recipe for flapjack and saying 'womb' every few minutes.

The teenage years were much worse. I resented every day the sun shone and determinedly holed myself up in my attic bedroom, resplendent in heavy denim jeans and a jumper, playing pompous Ultravox LPs. A surly collection of us would eventually shuffle into town and slouch in front of Woolworths for a few hours, sneering at anyone who looked more than a year older than we were. Then on to the local park to watch the cricket we all loathed but which offered another chance to snort with derision. There would be the standard train journey to Blackpool, complete with the 'let's get lost in Manchester' option, those foiled-wrapped sandwiches, the Pleasure beach, the sunburn, the beer. Halcyon days!

Therefore, six week holiday kids of 2013, please remember to stay in doors and mooch around at home. get under your parents feet, whinge a bit about life being 'not fair' and endure the embarrassment of well-meant trips to the Natural History Museum. You have my full support but please, please don't be on my train at 5 p.m.