'Confluence of Sound'

I'll just go ahead and say it - I love the Eurovision song contest. It just makes me happy. Nothing is more guaranteed to provide something that will make your jaw hit the floor, or will make you want to marry Terry Wogan. As the piercing lady presenter said, it was full of unforgeddable moments.

Did Russia deserve to win? Well, skaters and violinists with large noses don't really do it for me, but that's hardly the point. I did enjoy the Shakira-esque stylings of Greece, Armenia and the Ukraine - particularly the Ukrainian lady's 'strike a pose' moments in front of her lightboxes.

And then of course there's the special stuff. France thought they were being weird with Sebastian Tellier's golf cart and bearded backing ladies, but then Bosnia came and blew them out of the water. I have no idea what a song requiring 4 brides, one washing line, a woman with a birds nest on her head and a skirt covered in apples and a man with more blusher than i have ever seen could be about, but it was oddly compelling. Honorable mentions must go to Finland's hair metal (3 drummers, one with a furry cape); Croatia's muppet-style grumpy pensioner in a white hat (could he be described as a rapper? Was he in fact 75 cents as advertised??); Icelands happy house track; Turkeys almost-indie rock & roll (note to cameraman, the long haired one you ignored was the cutest); the Latvian pirates with their total lack of credibility; and the really quite tasteful Norwegian track.

The worst entries? Well lets be honest, Poland and Germany deserved to be at the bottom more than we did - for sunbed abuse and in Germany's case a total inability to sing in tune (with the music, with one another, with the nearest cat - anything). But I am still reeling from Spain's miniature Elvis with his bollywood moves - it wasn't e even so bad it was funny - it was just horrible.

With Terry, I was somewhat mystified by the success of Azerbaijan's operatic angels (and devil with his glass of 'blood') - and by the way it was all too clear in the green room that coloured contacts and special hair have a highly transformative effect - could you see any angels there? Thought not.

Some themes of the evening - cross-dressing, starting with the dancers for last year's winner in the opening number who wore half & half male & female evening dress. Women who all have the same tan, teeth, legs, lips and eyeshadow - Poland and Norway opted for the ironed hair, the rest for curly, Sweden's eyeshadow made her (?) look like an alien, and then of course there was the presenter of the Russian votes who had plaits, a trilby and a lace cravat.

All that can be said about the band who came on during the scoring, and their red and blue painted dancers, was said by Terry - 'you either get buried or married to this.' He also had the last word on the green room shenanigans - 'Is that man taking a photo of the camera?'

On the scoring - 'London calling' still sounds more impressive than when anywhere else tries it; rimless glasses are scary (yes I mean you, France and Albania); Moldova you should read your Fairy Tales before offering the presenters a shiny red apple; Thomas in Germany did you really love Azerbaijan so much that you had to steal their angel wings?; The Czech republic, it's understandable to confuse Azerbaijan and Armenia, but golden haired Bjorn from Sweden, if you can't say Bosnia Herzegovina it's time to back away from the bottle and the autocue.

Altogether now, with Terry - 'Now might be a good time to make yourself a stiff drink.'

Good taste and psychopaths

I am in mourning for the end of Dexter - everyone's favourite psychopath. However although they chickened out slightly from the truly confused Dexter in the books who really came a lot closer to killing his sister, they did set it up nicely for a further series. Meanwhile I await the next paperback. It's the dry tone that's the real joy, like a rather cynical alien observing human customs, then getting sucked in against his will.

Went to the Geffrye Museum the other day, which shows middle class household interiors from the 1600s to the present. Perhaps the most unexpected dimension to it is the very green and cloistered-feeling courtyard which although right on Kingsland Road (by no means a cloistered environment...) has a very peaceful Hogwarts air about it. You can see most of the displays, done as period rooms, in an hour or two - for my money the 30s to 60s have by far the most covetable items, including the Balzac leather armchair and pleasingly the white pottery polar bear also owned by my grandparents. The bear's clean lines including a suitably sharp looking face are simultaneously stylised and menacingly realistic - it used to scare me witless when I slept opposite it in my grandparents' spare room when I was small. There are also some fun paintings, including a great one of the mob observed from the club window - the woman is leaning out in her evening dress to observe the plebs in action but the man doesn't even consider it worth turning his head for.

On a totally unrelated note, in the run up to the China Olympics, do check out Amnesty's China Human Rights pages.

Back to school (via Cairo)

So, a bad week for blogging (sorry this is a little late), but only because last week was very good for the writing.

I'm not sure what mental block prevented me from understanding when I was younger that writing a novel doesn't (for most people) involve having an idea and sitting down to write, but requires rather more research and planning. I have however just finished my first full synopsis of my planned novel, and am very excited to get started. It's fair to say that through my month and a bit of research the plan has changed direction radically, which has been useful, but more to the point it's felt really great to be learning about something new again - my knowledge of Egypt and of the Desert War in the 1940s was pretty much non-existent so it's been a real voyage of discovery. I've also been re-reading the Arabian Nights - I had forgotten how amazingly callous some of the stories are, with plenty of unexpected violent or deadly punishments that are regretted at leisure afterward, not to mention the details like the various importunate lovers who end up locked in a stack of cupboards with their urine falling on those below. No doubt this is why I liked them as a child - they remind me slightly of Roald Dahl's gruesomeness. Plus there are all the magic Djins, fish that talk and other fun things.

As well as back to school on the research (or at least to the library), I also went on an excellent City Lit one-day course on writing for picture books for very young children. This was a great chance to workshop some ideas, but also to learn the things that you never think of as a novice - like the fact that rhyme (though popular with kids) does not translate, and that most picture books have a standard number of pages to do with how they are batch-printed. First picture books for the under-3s tend to be deathly dull for adults, because fantasy elements are just confusing at that age, but for 3-6s you can have much more fun - although it turned out my idea had about 3 stories worth of plot in one, which I guess is good news when i come to rework it!

It's not over until the fat man sings - from the heart!

Went last night to see Deadline and Mad Sin at the Islington Academy - which reminded me of the time some years ago when I saw Evanescence and Jane's Addiction over the course of a few days - that's to say, the first band were all about the technically admirable and satisfying in stereo, whereas the second brought the true heartfelt mayhem, charisma and sex, with much more exciting results.

I don't want to be rude about Deadline - I really liked the music and will almost certainly pay money for it at some point and be happy - but someone needs to tell the singer that ironing her hair flat (including the so-now, so-vogue-meets-essex long fringe) and tucking it behind her ear every time it threatens to go astray is just not rock&roll... when she punched the air the fun came solely from comparing it to Evanescence's 'daring' exortation to us to 'rock our asses off' - oooooh, xena warrior princess (almost) swore!

With Mad Sin, however, words cannot really do justice. Their stage preparations included setting up the immense black double bass, which glowed eerily in its border of red fairy lights with a small trail of smoke rising behind it. The double bass player has a red tip to his quiff to match the lights, and at one point managed (slowly) to swing the entire base around his head. Oh, and at a key point in the performance the head of the double base emits a shower of sparks to the ceiling. All of which is fun, but not nearly so exhilarating and confusing as the sight of their behemoth of a singer, belly straining at his braces, scarf turning to limp rag, and quiff turning at the back into what I can only describe a kind of horned tonsure, leaping and kicking as he exercises his vocal range from squeal to gravel. The music is not greatly varied - but it's all about rhythm and pace and appeals on a visceral level. Each time the singer high-kicks or does a 'brrr' wobble with his jowls his entire body vibrates in a long wave, mesmerically. Meanwhile on the left is what appears from his emaciation to be the singer's knawed bone, with a quiff cunningly shaped to bring out the oddity of his head. The double bassist also sings, as does 'elvis' who is brought out mid way for a couple of songs, possibly to prevent the singer from a coronary. Compelling viewing...