The lighter note in a heavier world

EUROVISION: Always an event to get people talking.

Whether you love it or hate it, there are always moments which will get you thinking about the state of the world and the questionable condition of the human thought process. 

This year Norway were the clear winners, gaining more than 300 points with catchy tune Fairytale.

Everything about it was sugary sweet, from the backdrop images of a quaint storybook village, to the enthusiastic fiddling of the main singer Alexander Rybak, who quite frankly looks like the main hero in a wholesome Disney film. 

The two blonde backing singers in pastel maxi-dresses provided harmonies which would make the most angry of people calmer and for those few minutes, the world was a perkier place.

Which is perhaps why it did so well. Are people looking for escapism in a moment when current affairs, whether it be the crumbling economy, war, or swine flu, aren't offering too many light notes?

The entry from the United Kingdom was created the way most celebrities seem to be born these days, through yet another reality show.

The whole process was led by Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber, who had decided that it was in need of a re-vamp in order to be successful and he was right, Jade Ewan came fifth overall with their offering. 

Marks for effort had to go to some countries who had tried to blend tradition into a modern pop song - I'm thinking Moldova here as their dancers had to move at lightening speeds to keep up with the music.

Denmark's song was written by Ronan Keating - and boy could you tell - as the singer Brinck imitated his singing style to a tee (and I suspect had also raided his wardrobe too). 

Germany tried to add raunch to their act with burlesque cutie Dita Von Teese - which I guess from their low scoring didn't really appeal too much to the family audience - although in my opinion not as shocking as the singer's awful silver skintight trousers.

As usual there were some performances in which you spend the entire time with furrowed brow trying to work out what was going on in their head when they decided to do that. 

Albania featured a nice normal female singer, accompanied by some dancer decked out in a sea green bodysuit complete with mask, looking like he's just arrived fresh from an audition for an toilet cleaner advert. Mad as a fish.

Runner-up has to go to Ukraine whose dancers were dressed as Gladiators. Again no reasoning.

Maybe that's another point as to why Norway's song was so popular; it summed up the whole ethos of the Eurovision Song Contest.

In love with a fairytale? You would have to be to sit through this collection of eccentricity and multi-cultural madness.

The day the pig flu over the world

AS with most things discussed in the press, the reported cases of Swine Flu are provoking two common trails of thought.

There are those who switch on their TV, radio, log on to the web or open a paper and read about the situation, believing it all; develop a fearful look in their eyes as they clear the fridge of sausages and bacon and stock up on tissues and anti-bac hand spray.  That little bottle of hand cleaner coupled with fitful gasps by the owner as they witness other people sneezing next to them on public transport has replaced those huge "The End is Nigh" sandwich boards normally worn by skinny, slightly feral looking men with beards who used to frequent busy city centres.  They accept that whether it is Swine Flu, Bird Flu, SARS, whatever, it is going to get them in the end and that nobody will escape. 

The second type are those who find it easier to believe that it isn't actually happening, and is just the result of a quiet news week.  Somewhere in a top secret location, without anyone knowing, all of the world's press got together and decided that this week was the right time to create mass hysteria about something which is after all, never going to be as deadly as the much maligned Man Flu.  After single-handedly being responsible for creating the credit crunch, the savage messenger boys have now turned their attentions to destroying your sanity by making you believe there is a new kind of deadly flu.  And in fact it all began because an old person situated in a quiet corner of Mexico died shortly after sneezing. Probably. 

My opinion?  Well I imagine there will be indentations on my behind due to the amount of sitting on the fence I do, but the media are just doing their jobs, and complying according to demand.  If you weren't interested, you wouldn't read about it, would you? Most of it may well be sheer sensationalism, but if nobody ever reported it and the flu continued to spread, the public would start whispering about cover-ups and question of why they were never told about it.  As a journalist, it's a case of damned if you do, damned if you don't. 

The days of intellectual types admitting they agree with the press have long passed and it is fashionable to belittle and criticise journalists regardless of what they report.  I imagine Swine Flu probably won't take over the world, and will soon be consigned to the list of forgotten world threats.

But not shooting the messenger? That'll be the days pigs fly. 

Never shop under the influence of a bank holiday

BANK holidays do funny things to shoppers.

Technically it's one or two days where you might not be able to access a supermarket, and despite the fact that you may never normally visit a store for a whole week, it puts the fear of God into you.  What if you run out of mixed herbs or fishfingers in the meantime?  You have cupboards crammed with food but guaranteed the one thing you want is the very thing you will run out of, just when access to supplies is being denied.

And so this very basic and irrational fear seems to be part of the human nature, evolved after centuries of incompetence.  Everyone, no matter how sensible they may be the rest of the time, will make a mental note to pop into the supermarket before a bank holiday to stock up on bread: "Three loaves should be enough, shouldn't it dear?" You'll hear people mutter.  "Are we okay for carrots?" and classic behaviour includes stocking up on burgers and buns ready for the "traditional" Bank Holiday Barbeque which never happens because the typical British weather will put a stop to that.

So as normal I fell prey to this behaviour and found myself in the supermarket on the Saturday before Easter Sunday, and witnessed a truly spectacular incident. 

My way was blocked by two trolleys as their drivers (can you drive a trolley?) went to war.

How it started? Nobody is sure, but people were certainly sticking around to discover how it was going to end. 

In the red corner: a chav in her early 20s sporting stereotypical sportswear in various pastel shades which clashed with her bleached blonde and chocolate brown highlights. In the blue: a menopausal woman with too much eyeliner and a backcombed hairdo she hadn't changed since she first looked on at the cast of Dallas in envy in 1988. 

Such was their need to get their shopping sorted before the store closed in six hours, they were getting angry, something to do with the chav not moving out of the way for 80s woman.  The chav unwisely made some rude comment to her mother about 80s woman and that was it. The elder opponent launched into a tirade of very, very loud abuse. 

"Look at your hair!" the elder said.  The case of pot calling kettle was revealed for what it was as the Chav retorted: "Look at my hair? Look at your hair!"  It was never going to be a winning put-down, like two fat kids mocking each other's size.  With morbid fascination people began to gape like goldfish, unable to tear themselves away from the floorshow of bad taste.  Had it really come to this? People so desperate to make sure they have enough milk to get through the weekend were resorting to public humiliation.  And once started, they then realised they had no grounds for an argument but determined to win, they had stooped to commenting on appearances. The 80s woman then stormed out of the store declaring she would never, ever return to such a place.

The thing is, of course, that after the catfight had dispersed, people shook their heads, paid for their shopping and almost certainly left without the one item they came in for.

And now for someone completely different

I'VE been writing for years and some things you will never be prepared for, such as meeting one of your comedy heroes.

How do you react when you unexpectedly get to interview a man partially responsible for providing the very foundations of your sense of humour?

Whose work, together with his comedy partners, was impressed on me from an early age, and I could usually be heard laughing as my father and I mis-quoted their catchphrases and sketches.

This week I  got the chance to meet Terry Jones, and almost met Michael Palin. 

Unless you are from a rather serious, and sheltered planet, you will know I'm referring to two members of Monty Python.

They were in town for a special screening of Monty Python's Life of Brian, a film released in 1979 which prompted much controversy with religious types and therefore prompted a rumour that it was banned in Aberystwyth.

Like all good rumours, nobody is quite sure how it started, and as with a lot of old policies, rules, or decisions taken by local authorities, nobody was able to confirm whether the film was actually banned and on what grounds.

 Perhaps it just a passing thought a county council officer had once whilst standing in the work cafeteria, which he muttered faintly to his PA and then promptly forgot about it as he contentedly dug into his shepherd's pie and beans.

Either way, the Mayor of the town, who played Brian's girlfriend Judith Iscariot in the film was determined to get it screened for charity.

And it was a jolly good reason to entice some of the Pythons to the area.

I was unable to attend the screening, however my photographer was lovely enough, in between jostling with 17 other photographers for that elusive picture, to ask Palin for an autograph for me. 

My joy was doubled when he then presented me with a pic of Palin writing said autograph - it was almost like I was there. And he had to write my name so now he must have heard of me... right?

So it was all I could do not to spontaneously combust when, some nine hours later I found myself at a second charity screening of the film, but this time in Machynlleth.

And Terry Jones was there too! 

Before I know what's happening, I'm whisked over to interview the great man, and have to fight to maintain even the smallest degree of professionalism, when in fact all I want to do is quote lines at him, play him the video clips of our pet cockatiel whistling 'Always look on the bright side of life' and show him how my ringtone is in fact a soundclip of him as Brian's mother in the film shouting "He's not the messiah, he's a very naughty boy!"

Despite the fact he lives in mid Wales, I think I must have asked him at least three times what he thinks of Machynlleth and each time he patiently explained that he probably knows the town better than I do.

After about four minutes of my shambolic interviewing, I eventually give in to my inner Python and just ask for his autograph, a request which both of us look relieved at.

But he was lovely and I still can't believe I've met him - even if my interview was more ridiculous than the Ministry of Silly Walks.

He's not the messiah. But he is the closest thing to a comedy god I've ever met.

Sunday morning - It's just a restless feeling by my side

I CANNOT sit still. I don't know why. I get like this normally as we welcome in a new year but it soon dwindles. I make these massive statements that this will be the year that...(insert fantastical idea). It soon fades as I get caught up in everyday life. 

It hit me again about a week ago and has yet to subside. In a ploy to channel my nervous energy I keep cleaning the house. I don't mean doing the dishes or having a quick hoover round the living room, it's more extreme than that. 

Friday night: people everywhere are either getting ready to go out and have fun, or just winding down and relaxing. I didn't do either; I washed the skirting boards instead.  And before that, we were about to watch a film, suddenly the boyf hears a clatter in the kitchen to find me lugging the large microwave to the floor so I can anti-bac the surface it normally stands on. 

During the week, before I went to bed, I started moving all the books and DVDS off the shelves of the bookcases to dust it.  And what is odder is that I'm now lying to the boyf about it. In the morning he quizzically stared at the duster and polish by the book case, trying to work out if we had cleaning elves in the night. He questioned me and I denied it - saying it was there to remind me the room needs cleaning - regardless of the fact that there was no longer any dust to be seen and the room had a fresh lemony smell to it. It's becoming some weird shameful secret. 

Earlier this week I got up from the couch during the normal evening of wall-to-wall TV, claiming I needed some paracetamol.  Twenty minutes later I'm still in the bathroom, using an old toothbrush to clean around and under the sink. 

And today is no better, I started washing doors. Even Kim and Aggy would be freaked out by me right now.

I have tried to channel the energy into other stuff. I bought three books. And then read them all back to back in the space of 48 hours (which also included time to sleep, eat and work). I've had to ditch that idea until I find my library card, or it's going to prove very expensive. 

So now I'm writing. And it seems instead of cleaning I'm now writing about cleaning. But I keep getting distracted by the fact I can see dust on my keyboard... Now, where was that cloth?

Revenge of the citrus fruit

LIVING by the sea you begin to view the weather like that nursery rhyme 'There was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead; When she was good, she was very very good, and when she was bad, she was horrid.'  The weather tends to swing from extremes and in winter can seem very bleak.  I tend to get by with a decent winter coat, the hope that it will soon be Spring, and an endless supply of satsumas to snack on in a vague optimism that they will stop me a, indulging in fatty comfort foods, and b, venturing out in the cold to find said comfort foods.

Quite bizarrely, my favourites, tangerines, have disappeared off the supermarkets' radars - you cannot buy them any more. There isn't even a space on the shelf where they used to be - I only assume there must be a big tangerine cover-up by the government - and any supermarket staff who are so bold as to enquire when the next delivery of tangerines is likely to be are taken into a small hidden room and beaten with their own name-badges until they forget the fruit ever existed.   I now have to make do with the pip-laden satsumas, the unpeelable clementines or the ambiguous 'citrus fruit'  - some tasteless substitute for the fantastic tangerine which is that bland it doesn't even deserve an exciting name.  Nevertheless I have an unwritten rule that five or more of these must be within grabbing distance - a snacking device which has horribly backfired on me.

 

 My car has been smelling bad recently - I suspected it was due to a forgotten satsuma or even worse - citrus fruit - loose in my car somewhere and rotting.  Having searched under the seats I couldn't find anything and put the odd smell as being the window de-icer sprays I had bought; they were on offer so I got carried away and bought enough to keep 20 greenhouses defrosted for about two years.  With the snow last week I congratulated myself in being organised enough to buy this spray in advance and with a certain smugness ran outside before work to get the car cleared in time.  I mentally high-fived myself for my preparation skills, stuffing the car with a fleece blanket and a shovel. I hasten to add this was advised by people on the TV for anyone braving the snowy conditions and not because I wanted to shift a dead body as suggested by a suspicious neighbour.  As I opened the car boot I could hear heavenly choirs sing in celebration of my triumphant ability to be ready for the snow as I grabbed my wellies (which had sat in the car since my death-hike up to the Centre for Alternative Technology).

 Car running? Check. Snow cleared? Check. Blanket and shovel ready for snowy (not murderous) conditions? Check. Wellies on? Almost. Wearing the obligatory three pairs of socks required for wellies-in-snow situations I jammed my right foot in a boot... And screamed.

 Soaking through all three pairs of socks was what used to be a citrus fruit. A very mouldy, soft and smelly citrus fruit.   Source of bad smell in car identified? Check.  With no other option for practical footwear I cleaned the inside of the wellie as best I could, changed the socks and spent the entire day smelling like a rotten bowl of fruit and squelching when I walked. 

 

 How did the fruit get in my boot in the first place? I have no idea - probably linked to my carrying them for snacking with me all the time. But I just can't shake off the vision of a government official sitting at his large mahogany desk somewhere wringing his hands, smiling to himself and muttering: 'That'll teach her for asking questions about tangerines.'